


Playing A Game Called Love

by empress_ofbloodshed



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empress_ofbloodshed/pseuds/empress_ofbloodshed
Summary: a rowcan story inspired by Red, White & Royal BlueLorcan Salvaterre is the son of Terrasen’s first female Prime Minister. Even with his rough exterior, the people love him and promptly cast him as the Terrasenian equivalent of a young royal, along with Elide Lochan and his cousin, Vaughan. There’s only one problem: Lorcan has very strongly disliked the Prince of Wendlyn for years before his family mingled with the world’s elite. And when he accidentally creates an international incident that has the potential to ruin Terrasen/Wendlyn relations, they need a solution, and fast.The damage control is simple: stage a truce between the two rivals. What begins as a fake friendship purely for the benefit of the media grows deeper and more dangerous than either could have imagined. Soon, Lorcan finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with Prince Rowan Whitethorn that could derail his mother’s reelection campaign and upend two nations. It raises the question: can love save the world after all?
Relationships: Lorcan Salvaterre/Rowan Whitethorn
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. prologue

The piercing pine green eyes of Wendlyn’s silver-haired heartthrob prince stared back at Lorcan from the glossy pages of the magazine. There was just something about Prince Rowan Whitethorn that irked him.

Maybe it was his too-stiff posture in the photo. Maybe it was the way Lorcan just knew that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Not that he had been staring, because of course he hadn’t. Yet oil from his fingers left marks all over the glossy pages.

Maybe it was because as a child Lorcan dreamed of riding horses after watching old western movies with his father, something his parents couldn’t ever afford. And that stupid prince played polo with his own horse named Duke. Like who names their horse Duke, of all things.

 _Lorcan! Dinner!_ his mother called in their native language, one Elide was nearly fluent in.

 _Coming!_ he replied as he shoved the gossip magazine back in the bin where she kept the others she bought.

The clinking of dishes and wine glasses greeted him when he entered the kitchen, taking the offered plate from Marion Lochan with a nod and smile of thanks. Elide and Vaughan had already claimed their spots in the backyard around the firepit. Lorcan unceremoniously dropped a cushion between the two of them, flopping down to sit cross-legged with his plate in his lap.

“Did you hear Aelin’s going to live with Prince Rowan?” Elide announced. Vaughan shook his head. “I’m jealous,” Elide continued, gushing about how much she wished she could live in Doranelle with the prince.

Lorcan snorted. It was no secret he didn’t like the prince across the sea. “Maybe Aelin can teach him to lose that stick up his ass.” Unbeknownst to him, his mother was nearby and in range to hear him curse. She whacked him upside the head, chiding, _No swearing._ “Ow, Mama, that hurt,” he grumbled.

* * *

Rowan wanted to be anywhere but here, standing in this itchy ensemble while he waited for his distant cousin and her own cousin to arrive. His mother wore a simple yet elegant forest green dress, the fabric hanging loose on her frame. After the death of his father, she lost her spark. Rowan missed that spark.

His grandmother easily angered when she discovered her daughter and grandson would go off on little adventures and escape their personal security.

Those adventures stopped after his father died, when his mother began spending more and more time in her bed. The funeral had been four years ago. It still ached like it was yesterday.

Fifteen year old Aelin Ashryver Galathynius entered the room in a whirlwind of energy. Her cousin Aedion could be mistaken for her twin, with the same turquoise eyes and golden hair.

Rowan knew enough that he didn’t have to listen to the formal introductions. Simply bow his head slightly when they bowed and curtseyed to him. Aelin’s parents were former Terrasenian royalty who chose to spend their fortune helping others around the world. Aedion’s mother died when he was a baby, his father dying in a plane crash when he was ten. Ever since, he had been living with his cousin.

Now, both of them would be living with Rowan. The last thing he wanted was another girl fawning over him or trying to exploit him because of his royal status.


	2. one

_seven years later_

Lorcan’s relationship with the prime minister’s manor was complicated.

He loved the history engrained in its walls. He hated being trailed all the fucking time by his private security. He loved being able to live in a massive house with everything he could dream of. And he hated it.

The key to their house in Perranth hung around his neck on a thin leather cord, the metal cool against his skin. No one knew about it, not even Elide or Vaughan.

The three of them were different. Former leaders’ children over the age of eighteen didn’t live in the manor with them, much less the daughter of the deputy prime minster, the son of the prime minister and his cousin. Yet the three of them were inseparable.

By the time Lorcan kicked the door open to Elide’s room, directly across the hall from his, Vaughan was already comfy on a beanbag chair with his fingers flying over his laptop’s keyboard. Elide flipped through one of the latest gossip magazines, a whole slew of them carelessly scattered around her. Music played softly from the bookshelf speakers she had.

“They think we’re dating again,” Elide muttered, barely even bothering to look up as he entered. Lorcan tossed one of their favorite ice creams in her lap and she grinned, raising herself onto her knees and smacking an obnoxious kiss to his cheek. Vaughan took his tri-flavored popsicle with a nod, saving whatever he was working on and closing his laptop.

Lorcan asked through a mouthful of ice cream, “Why?”

Said magazine in question was thrown at him. Sure enough, there was a picture of them leaving one of Orynth’s clubs, clinging to each other with Elide’s head tipped back in raucous laughter. Behind them trailed Lorcan’s private security, a group of women who wouldn’t hesitate to tear out the throat of anyone who threatened them. Manon, Asterin, and Sorrel were all personally in charge of Lorcan. Three more were assigned to Vaughan. Two for Elide. The other remaining five for his mother.

“You mean that night you puked out the window and Manon nearly murdered you for opening the window as she was driving?” Lorcan said, barely stifling his laughter. He caught the pen Elide threw at him.

“Fuck you,” Elide hissed. Lorcan blew her a kiss and she flipped him off. “V, what are the chances that Lorcan’s still gonna be a dick by the time we’re thirty?”

Vaughan looked up at the ceiling, his tongue between his teeth as he thought about it and did the calculations. “There’s a ninety-six point seven percent chance that my cousin will in fact continue to be a dick.” His dark eyes glittered with mirth.

“Ugh, you both suck,” Lorcan bemoaned. He forced himself to keep a straight face, although it was a struggle. “Hey. Hey, Lochan, will you read me some of the fanfic written about me?”

“WhaーEW!” Elide shrieked. “Absolutely not! Lorcan Salvaterre, that’s disgusting!”

He couldn’t control his laughter, tears pricking his eyes as he doubled over, clutching his stomach. Wheezing, he tried to apologise to her but fell into another fit of laughter at the disgust plain on her face. Vaughan laughed silently into his fist, not wanting to be the focus of Elide’s anger.

The door opened and Manon poked her head through, her white braid swinging over her shoulder and nearly hiding her clear earpiece. “Good, you’re all here. You’re being summoned,” she told them. “I’ll have Vesta take the ice cream to the kitchens, just get your asses in gear.” Manon Blackbeak spoke bits and pieces of the indigenous language Lorcan’s family spoke, although she preferred addressing them in her own native witch language. There was a reason for it, but they were never allowed to know why.

With much grumbling, Lorcan and Elide followed Manon through the halls. Her boots snapped on the marble floors, the sound echoing around them. Vaughan lingered a few feet behind, talking quietly with Faline in the witch language. _Show-off,_ Lorcan thought. His cousin learned the language of the Western Wastes faster than he should’ve been able to, but Lorcan suspected it had to do with his new friendship with Faline Blackbeak.

Then Manon opened the door to Citana Salvaterre’s study and all but shoved them inside.

Lorcan’s mother glanced up at him from where she was looking at a thin binder, Kai at her side. Kai was in charge of all travel and making sure everything ran without a hitch, whereas a conveniently absent Kaltain was in charge of how they appeared in the press. So that meant they were traveling somewhere.

Lorcan elbowed Elide. He whispered, “Is something of international importance happening soon?”

Elide stomped on his toe and he hissed. “Only the wedding of Aedion Ashryver to Lysandra Ennar. Dumbass.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not addicted to those stupid magazー”

“Children, behave yourselves,” his mother huffed. “Twenty-one years of age and you two still act like you’re eight fighting over whose mud pie I should taste first. Gods help me.” She handed the binder to Kai, who transferred it to Manon and then handed three more to Elide and Lorcan and Vaughan. Lorcan perched himself on the armrest of the couch, reading through the itinerary for their little getaway.

They would be flying out to Doranelle tomorrow morning. The rehearsal was set for that evening, the wedding the next day. Then they would be flying home in time for Lorcan to go to class on Monday morning.

Lorcan had briefly met the prince a few years ago at the winter games Terrasen hosted every year, finding him no less stuck up than he expected. And very much someone easy to hate.

“I expect you three to be on your best behaviour,” the prime minister said. “Vaughan, please keep these two out of trouble. Lorcan, I know how much you dislike Prince Rowan, but please be polite.” His mother didn’t believe in hatred towards other people, so Lorcan very strongly disliked the prince in her presence. “And Elide, sweetheart, make sure my son behaves himself.”

 _Yes, Mama,_ Lorcan replied solemnly as Elide nodded with a shy smile.

_Good._

☩ ☩ ☩

Lorcan glared at Manon, snatching the offered coffee out of her hand. He flopped into the window seat, taking a long swig of his hot caffeinated water with cream and sugar. Elide stumbled in a few minutes later, looking better than Lorcan although not by much. Wrapped in a blanket, she curled up in a chair and was asleep in moments. Out of the trio, Vaughan was the most awake.

Once the jet took off and the coffee had kicked in, Lorcan pulled his laptop from his backpack and stared at the blinking cursor. Out of pure curiosity, he decided to take an international relations class along with all of his engineering courses. His paper was due on Tuesday.

It blinked on the blank document, haunting him.

Groaning, Lorcan minimized the window and decided to google the royal wedding. He tried not to keep up with all the royal drama and who’s who, but now it would come back to bite him in the ass.

_Aedion Ashryver to wed supermodel_

_Never before seen shots of Prince Rowan with Aelinーcould they be in love?_

_Eugh,_ he shuddered. That was just disgusting. Yes, they were very distant cousins, but cousins nonetheless.

His twitter explore feed was all people excited for the royal wedding. Everywhere he looked, it was royal wedding this and royal wedding that. Or even worse, Prince Rowan Whitethorn.

Next thing he knew, Manon was shaking his shoulder and holding a suit on a hanger. Lorcan begrudgingly changed out of his comfy flannel pajama pants and a high school hockey hoodie, trading them for the tailored navy suit and loafers, although he refused to put those on until they landed. Manon glared at him for sitting on the floor in his suit; Lorcan ignored her. Elide brushed and braided his hair into a single long plait that fell down his spine before pulling hers into a nearly flawless chignon and tugging a few strands loose to frame her face. Vaughan’s suit matched Lorcan’s, while Elide’s dress was a soft shade of forest green.

They were ushered down the steps and into the SUV, roaring away from the tarmac en route to the wedding rehearsal.

Manon and the others slipped off to their stations around the room once they arrived, one of the many hired servers showing the trio where they were seated. Lorcan snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, drinking both in seconds and ignoring Elide’s scoff at his side when he didn’t give her one. The rehearsal was mind-numbingly boring and soon enough they were free.

☩ ☩ ☩

The dove grey suit Lorcan donned for the wedding matched well with the forest green tie and silver cufflinks. Staring at himself in the mirror, he glowered.

Elide entered from the adjoining suite without warning, humming under her breath with her heels in one hand. Currently on her feet were obnoxiously pink bunny slippers.

“I really hope they have an open bar,” he confessed.

Elide’s reflection in the mirror looked at him like he was stupid. “Lor, this is a royal wedding. The cake itself is eighty thousand dollars. Of course they’re going to have an open bar.”

“Praise Hellas, an eighty thousand dollar cake. It better be good for that ridiculous amount of money.”

“Let’s just go and get this over with.”

Seated at a table with other people Lorcan barely cared to remember the names of, he nursed a whiskey. As the waiter exchanged the empty glass for a flute of champagne, Lorcan saw the last person he wanted to see heading straight for them. Currently, the newlywed couple was still dancing on the floor to a classical ensemble.

“You know what? I’ll just take that entire bottle,” Lorcan told the shocked waiter, swigging straight from the bottle of expensive champagne. When the alcohol burned in his throat, he set it on the table, albeit a bit too roughly and the ceramic dishes rattled loudly. The others at the table turned to him and he stared back, daring them to say something. Vaughan narrowed his eyes in suspicion before glancing away to watch the couple on the dance floor.

Prince Rowan Whitethorn caught Elide’s attention, his pine green eyes flicking over her head to land on Lorcan. “Would you care to dance?” he asked. 

Lorcan kicked her under the table and she yelped. “Of course, Your Highness,” she said with a smile, glaring over her shoulder at Lorcan as the prince led her to the dance floor.

Stalking to the bar, Lorcan asked for a whiskey on the rocks. The bartender nodded, a perfect sphere of ice clinking as he lowered it into the glass. Lorcan took the drink with a grateful nod. Turning around, he leaned against the edgeーeven as it dug into his lower backーand watched Elide spin around the floor with Wendlyn’s prince. She was smiling and laughing.

It pissed him off to no end.

On his second glass of whiskey at that moment in time, Lorcan was assaulted by the smell of winter. It was sharp like a knife, yet carrying the familiarity and softness of a lover.

Lorcan choked when he saw Prince Rowan standing next to him, coughing on the burning amber liquid caught in his throat. The prince’s lip twitched then his face went a neutral blank, as if he caught himself in the act. He completely ignored Lorcan, instead ordering an old fashioned from the bartender. His accent was a smooth drawl. His fingers tapped the bar, the long-suffering ghost of a piano melody; it was one of Elide’s nervous habits.

As suddenly as he arrived, the prince left.

An hour later, Lorcan’s eyes caught on a lone figure with silver hair sipping champagne on the edge of the dance floor. Girls eyed him up like he was the cake and they were starving. Suddenly, the words Prince Rowan said on the day they first met came rushing back to Lorcan. The boy thought he was better than everyone, including Lorcan. His glazed expression of polite half-interest screamed that he had somewhere more important to be.

Striding over to the prince, Lorcan lifted his nearly empty glass of whiskey to him before draining it and placing it on a server’s tray to be whisked away. “You know,” he began, taking a second to fully survey the grand ballroom they were in, “it’s quite an embarrassment that this is a royal wedding and you can’t even afford decent whiskey.”

“Lorcan,” Rowan said, his accent sharply polite, “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”

Lorcan’s smile was all teeth. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, prince.”

“Truly a momentous occasion,” the prince agreed.

Underneath the polite, yet disinterested tone was the thinly veiled hate. They obviously hated each other. It was so perfectーthe mutual antagonists. Lorcan just wished the prince would let go of his polished windup toy attitude and act _human_. Because humans felt things and expressed their feelings.

Prince Rowan Whitethorn was too perfect. Lorcan wanted to poke it.

“Do you ever get tired,” Lorcan pondered, “of pretending you’re above all this?”

Rowan turned and Lorcan silently prided himself for the few inches he had over the Wendlyn prince. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Lorcan waved his hand, gesturing to everything around them. “You’re out here with photographers chasing after you, swanning for them like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t because you’re dancing with Elide, who’s basically my sister, of all people. You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

“I’m … a bit more complicated than that.”

“ _Ha_.”

“Oh,” Rowan said, his green eyes narrowing. “You’re drunk.”

Resting an overly friendly elbow on his shoulder, Lorcan shrugged. “Just saying, you could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”

The prince laughed ruefully. “I think perhaps you should consider switching to water.”

“Should I?” Lorcan thought about it for a second. Perhaps the whiskey warming his blood gave him the nerve to approach the prince, because he sure as Hels wouldn’t have done it sober. “Oh, gods, am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”

“You know what? I think you are.”

Lorcan’s mouth fell open, while the prince’s lips stretched into a smug little smile, hinting at meanness.

“Only a thought,” Rowan said. “Has it ever occurred to you that every time we meet, I am exhaustively civil with you and here you are seeking me out.”

“Whatーno,” Lorcan stammered, confused as to how this got turned on him. “Youー”

“Good day, Lorcan,” Rowan said tersely, turning to walk away.

The fucking _balls_ this prince had to think he got the last word; it drove Lorcan crazy. And before Lorcan even knew what he was doing, he reached out and pulled Rowan’s shoulder towards him.

Rowan turned, shoving Lorcan off of him. For one split second, Lorcan delighted because he finally saw the glint of an actual personality in the prince’s green eyes.

And then it all went to shit.

Lorcan stumbled backward on his own foot, catching himself on the table nearest him. He realised in abject horror that it was the one with the monstrously expensive, eight-tiered cake and tried to catch himself by grabbing for Rowan’s arm. But all that did was send them both crashing into the cake stand.

The cake leaned, teetered, and wobbled before finally tipping. Lorcan could only watch as it all happened in slow motion. There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. The wedding cake crashed to the floor in an avalanche of white buttercream, a sugary eighty thousand dollar nightmare.

As their momentum carried them through the fall and down, it caused them to land on top of the destroyed cake and ornate carpet. And the room fell heart-stoppingly silent.

Lorcan still clutched Rowan’s sleeve in his fist. The prince’s glass of champagne spilled across Lorcan’s white dress shirt, the glass itself shattered. Out of the corner of his eye, Lorcan could see a cut on Rowan’s cheekbone beginning to bleed. 

For a second, covered in frosting and champagne and the godsdamned Prince of Wendlyn, he thought at least the prince dancing with Elide wouldn’t be the biggest news to come out of the royal wedding.

His next thought was that his mother was absolutely going to murder him in cold blood.

“Oh my fucking gods,” Rowan muttered.

It struck Lorcan that this was the first time he had ever heard the prince swear, before he was distracted by the flash of a camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the cake-tastrophe is one of my favorite scenes hehe


	3. two

Kaltain slammed a stack of newspapers on the desk in what Lorcan so aptly named the I’m-going-to-die room. At least it had a nice view of the forests outside the city limits. He quietly flipped through them, hating the fact that he and the Prince of Wendlyn were all over every single one of them. The front pages too.

“These are just what I found on my way to work,” she told him, voice raising to shouting level. “I live two blocks away!”

Lorcan slouched further into his chair, wishing he could evaporate. He felt like he should, with the heat in the woman’s glare.

The door opened and in walked his mother, looking every inch the prime minister of Terrasen and radiating power in her navy pantsuit and heels, her dark hair brushing her shoulders. She slipped her glasses on, taking the top-most newspaper from the pile and leafing through it.

“Shouldn’t we be in the situation room for this?” Lorcan asked, attempting to make a joke and lighten the mood.

Both women fixed him with dagger glares and he immediately shut his mouth.

“Please, tell me another joke. Explain to me how this is funny,” Citana said, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back in her chair.

“Mama, he started it,” Lorcan protested. “I barely even touched him! He pushed me, and I only grabbed onto him to catch my balance thenー”

“Honey, the press does not give a flying fuck who started what.” His mother shook her head, taking her reading glasses off and folding them before setting them on the glass tabletop. Lorcan’s stomach took an uncontrolled freefall. “As your mother, I can appreciate this isn’t entirely your fault. _But right now I would like to have Manon kill you and bury you in a shallow grave so I can ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term. Got it?”_

_Yes, Mama._

“Good. Now that that’s settled, Kaltain has arranged a way for us to salvage our relationship with Wendlyn. I don’t have the time to deal with this personally.” Lorcan was handed a thick folder with a rainbow of post-it notes. “You are taking a trip back to Doranelle this weekend and spending it with Prince Rowan.”

Lorcan swallowed. “Is it too late for the whole faking-my-death idea?”

“I wasn’t talking about _faking_ a death, Lorcan. Anyhow, Kaltain will brief you on the rest. I have about a thousand meetings to go to.” His mother gathered her papers and her phone and her glasses, kissing the top of his head before leaving with a murmur of, _Love you, baby._

Kaltain perched herself on the edge of the table, watching him with a hawk’s gaze. She quite honestly looked like she would rather arrange his death than a trip to Doranelle. Huffing a sigh, she handed him a pen. Lorcan flipped through the pages, reading but not signing.

The two women had been working together since shortly after his mother started her political career. So if Kaltain was entrusted with the mess he caused, it was bad. Not bad like he vandalized an election billboard badーwhich he most definitely hadn’t done, more bad like he fucked up Terrasen’s international relations bad.

“I swear to the gods, Lorcan Salvaterre, sign those fucking papers,” she snarled. “I have been up all night trying to fix the mess you have created. You are going to follow the plan exactly to the letter and not fuck it up, okay?”

All Lorcan knew was that he was being forced on a plane at the end of the week and sent to Doranelle to spend two days with the last person in the entire universe he would want to spend time with. So he nodded, unconvinced as to how her plan would work.

If Rowan didn’t hate him before, he most definitely does now.

She continued. “We and Wendlyn’s Crown will be releasing a statement that said the cake-tastrophe was an accidentー”

“Which it was,” Lorcan interrupted.

She glared at him. “ーand that you and Prince Rowan have been close friends for the past several years?”

“We’re _what_?”

“Look, Lorcan,” Kaltain took a long drink from her metal thermos of coffee. He suspected it has alcohol in it and several shots of espresso; he wouldn’t blame her. “Both countries need to come out of this looking good, and the only way to do is that it to make it look like your little slap-fight at the wedding was some homoerotic frat bro mishap, okay? So you can hate the heir to the throne all you want, write mean poems about him in your diary, but the minute you see a camera, you act like the sun shines out of his dick, and you make it convincing.”

“Have you ever met him?” Lorcan scoffed. “How am I supposed to do that? He’s got the personality of a tree. One _ma'iinganag*_ would choose to piss on.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Are you really not understanding how much I don’t care at all about how you feel about this? From now on, Rowan Whitethorn is your best friend. You will smile and nod and not piss anyone off while you two spend the weekend doing charity appearances and talking to the press about how much you love each other’s company. If somebody asks about him, I want to hear you gush like he’s your fucking prom date.” Kaltain slid him a fact sheet across the table, telling him to memorize it like his life depended on it.

It was more boring than some books he was forced to read in high school.

“Does he get one about me?” Lorcan asked helplessly.

“Yes,” Kaltain said. “And making it was the most depressing moment of my career.” She also slid him a sheet of other requirements for the weekend, like social media posts and whatnot.

“I have class on Monday.”

“You’ll be back Sunday night.”

“So there’s no way I can get out of this?”

“Nope.”

Lorcan groaned, wanting to bang his head off the table. He knew it had to be done to salvage the two countries’ strained relationship, but that didn’t mean he would go willingly. Or have any fun at all.

“Okay,” he clicked the pen, flipping through the papers to the first pink post-it note. “I’ll do it. But I won’t have any fun.” Who knows, maybe one of Terrasen’s legendary wolves would bound out of the Oakwald to eat him. Then he wouldn’t have to go.

“Good gods, I hope not.”

* * *

Rowan had been asleep. At least until Aelin barged into his room and threw open the curtains, waving a newspaper and babbling too fast for his sleep-addled brain to understand.

“Can you shut up?” he mumbled, tugging the pillow over his head. He heard Aelin cooing, then a grunt. “I swear to the gods, you put that fucking cat on me, I will strangle you.”

The bed shifted as Aelin sat down, talking quietly to her cat. Rowan finally sat up, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“Good morning!” she chirped, letting Socks go. The cat took one look at Rowan and jumped off the bed, sauntering across the floor to sharpen his claws on an upholstered chair. One that just so happened to be Rowan’s reading chair.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop that!” When that didn’t work, he threw a thin paperback in the cat’s direction. Socks jumped, clearing the armrests before landing and shooting out of the door. Rowan rubbed his temples, a headache already forming.

Aelin fell backward, lacing her fingers behind her head and crossing her ankles. “Look at the paper, Ro-ro,” she said in a sing-song voice. “You can’t miss it. And don’t ever throw a book at Socks again.”

Rowan picked up the paper, unfolding it to see himself and Lorcan Salvaterre splashed across the front page. _Royal wedding’s cake-tastrophe_ the headline read. In the photo, he was laying on top of Terrasen’s prime minister’s son. “Oh my gods,” he breathed. “Gran’s going to murder me.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Aelin laughed. “I heard Emrys on the phone all last night with someone in Terrasen. Youー” She poked his bicep with the point of her acrylic nail. “ーget to spend this weekend with none other than Lorcan Salvaterre.”

A groan escaped Rowan before he could stop it. The last thing he wanted to do was spend his weekend with the boy he fell into an eighty thousand dollar cake with. And they made the front page across the three continents.

“I’m going back to sleep. Tell Emrys, Malakai, and Harriet that unless the palace is burning down or they have my favorite scones not to open that door,” Rowan told her, burrowing back into his bed and trying to reclaim the warmth of the sheets. Aelin made herself comfortable, the sound of whatever show she was watching now coming through her phone’s speakers. Rowan rolled over and whacked her with the pillow. She shrieked, yanking the pillow from him and walloping him with it. He finally kicked her off the bed and she fell on the rug in a heap of limbs and blonde hair. Now his pillows were all over the room and his blankets were askew.

“Get out,” Rowan said and pointed at the door. Aelin shook her head. “A, I’m really not in the mood.”

“That’s why I’m here, buzzard,” she replied, refusing to move.

Grumbling under his breath about how he didn’t want to do this, Rowan shouted, “Fenrys!” The door opened and Fenrys poked his head in.

His eyes flicked to Aelin pouting on the floor in a mess of pillows and he smiled. “Need me to remove a pest, Your Highness?” he smiled.

Rowan rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine coming on. “Yes, please. And can you have Harriet make a batch of those cheesy thyme scones and bring those up with some tea and ibuprofen?” Fenrys nodded, picking up Aelin and carrying her out. “Thank you.”

Collapsing in his reading chair, Rowan stared out the window. It was a typical day in Doranelle, sunny with only a few puffy white clouds slowly traveling across the blue sky. Rowan wanted a good thunderstorm; it would mirror how he felt at the moment.

He didn’t realise he dozed off until he awoke to the smell of fresh-baked scones and Emrys carrying a tea tray, a folio tucked under his arm. His handler sat on the opposite chair, setting the tray down on the table. Both busied themselves with tea and buttering a warm scone.

“Good morning, my boy,” Emrys said, taking care to speak a bit quieter than usual. “I take it Aelin’s already shown you the newspaper?”

Rowan nodded through a mouthful of scone, washing it down with a sip of his tea. He swallowed. “She said Lorcan would be coming here?”

Emrys’s smile and shake of his head was the same as that of an exasperated parent’s. “Well, I was supposed to be the one to break the news to you. Seems she beat me to it. But yes. Lorcan Salvaterre will be coming to Doranelle this Saturday. The two of you will be doing a number of things to convince the public that you two have in fact been close friends for the past several years.”

“Huh?” Rowan asked, in the middle of eating a second scone.

“To save face, what happened at the wedding was an accident and you two have been friends for years. It’s the best way for Terrasen and Wendlyn to clean up the mess you two wrought.” Emrys took a sip of his tea, leaning back into the chair. “That folio has all the necessary papers you need to sign, your itinerary, and the boy’s fact sheet. Do memorize it before Friday.”

He leaned in close, motioning for Rowan to do the same. “You didn’t hear this from me, boy, but Aedion and Lysandra found the whole thing extremely entertaining,” he whispered. Settling back into his position in the chair, Emrys helped Rowan go through the papers he needed to sign. Rowan slipped on his tortoiseshell-framed glasses, tucking one leg under him as he read through the itinerary and nibbled on a scone.

By the time he finished, his head was throbbing. Emrys snored on the chair, and Rowan didn’t have the heart to wake him after Aelin said he’d been up for hours on the phone with Terrasen. So he opened his door, pointing behind him to the sleeping man and whispering to Fenrys that he wanted to go to the greenhouse.

A light drizzle made the path from the rooftop access door to the greenhouse slippery. Inside it was pleasantly warm, although he could still hear rain droplets pattering on the glass. As he had requested years ago, a small daybed and table sat hidden in the corner by massive leaves. Rowan took two tablets of ibuprofen from the bottle he kept in the drawer, washing it down with water from his bottle and the last bite of his scone.

Then he curled up under the blankets, falling asleep quickly with the rain lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ma'iinganag - wolves in Ojibwe
> 
> “homoerotic frat bro mishap” is poetry hehe. rowan’s life should not be in fenrys’ hands, honestly.


	4. three

When he told Elide and Vaughan about his little weekend getaway, the former tipped her head back and cackled. Vaughan just shrugged, as if Lorcan deserved to suffer like this. Lorcan hated them both in that moment for laughing at his pain, but he knew that given enough time and a more political brain he would’ve come up with the same idea to heal the rift he caused with Wendlyn.

Kaltain made sure Lorcan boarded the jet, even as he dragged his feet on the tarmac. In less than eight hours, Lorcan would be pretending to be best buddies with the prince.

 _Perfect,_ he thought to himself. Exactly enough time for a full night’s sleep, seeing as he hadn’t gotten any last night finishing his assignments that would be due on Monday. Jetlag and homework were not a good combination, as he found out the last time they went to Doranelle.

When he woke up seven and a half hours later, Manon, Asterin, and Kaltain were all playing poker and chatting in the witch language. How Kaltain knew it and where they even got the set of chips and deck of cards, Lorcan didn’t know.

“Deal me in,” he mumbled, still wrapped in a blanket and sat down next to Manon.

She raised one snow-white eyebrow, her golden eyes appraising him. “You sure you want to play, sleepyhead?” she asked.

Lorcan shook his head violently, trying to clear the cobwebs. “Deal me in.”

“Alrighty, kiddo. Get ready to lose.”

Lorcan won one round, what Asterin later told him was a pity win. The other times, they absolutely crushed him. Landing couldn’t have come any sooner because Lorcan was bluffing with nothing in his cards, his last chips in the pot. Kaltain flipped his cards as she tidied up, hissing, “I knew that little shit was bluffing!”

Manon’s laugh was hearty and she gave Lorcan a nod on the way out of the jet to where the car waited. In the car, they made him change into darkwashed jeans, a forest green leather jacket, and a crisp pale grey button-down. They let him wear whatever shoes he wanted, which happened to be his favorite pair of boots.

A man that introduced himself as Emrys greeted Lorcan when he stepped out of the car. He must be Rowan’s handler. Emrys gave Lorcan a once-over, deeming his outfit satisfactory and striding over to ask the photographer a few questions. The photographer yanked off the leather jacket and threw it at Asterin, rolling the sleeves of Lorcan’s button-down up to an inch below his elbow, all the while chattering unhappily in his native language, one Lorcan didn’t recognize.

Resting his forearms on the wooden fence, he stared off into the distance. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kaltain snap a photo on her phone then felt his own buzz in his back pocket. Before he could take it out to see what she said, the Prince of Wendlyn galloped up on the same godsdamned horse from that magazine photo all those years ago.

Lorcan took a second to take it all in, from the chestnut-colored leather riding boots to the white pants that miraculously didn’t have a single stain marring them to the black blazer he wore. What irked Lorcan the most was the confidence the prince exuded in the saddle. And how good he looked.

Whatever sorcery Rowan performed to get his hair that perfectly tousled as he took off his helmet, Lorcan wanted it. The prince smiled wide at Lorcan, more for the benefit of the camera than anything else. It caught him off guard to be recipient of the prince’s magazine smile.

“I’m gonna throw up on you,” Lorcan told him, climbing over the fence even though the gate was six feet away.

“Hello, Lorcan,” Rowan said. Then the prince sighed, heavily. Lorcan could see the photographer doing his thing, but he ignored the man. “You look … sober.”

Lorcan really wanted to punch him, but he really didn’t want to cause his second international incident in a week. So instead he settled for little jibe, pleased to hear the ice in Rowan’s voiceーa sign that he was finally done pretending. “Only for you, Your Royal Highness,” he smirked, giving him a little mock-bow.

“You’re too kind,” Rowan intoned, dismounting with a smooth, practised ease. He handed Duke’s reins to a groom, stroking the horse’s nose with his now-ungloved hand before whispering something to it. Then he turned back to Lorcan, handing his gloves to an attendant waiting off by the side whose only job was to collect the prince’s discarded articles of clothing. Lorcan never hated anything more.

“This is idiotic,” Lorcan said, grasping Rowan’s extended hand. His skin was perfectly exfoliated and moisturized, just another thing for Lorcan to add to his list of reasons why he hated the prince. He smiled winningly for the photographer on the other side of the fence and said through his teeth, “Let’s get this over with.”

“I would much rather be tortured,” Rowan whispered back, smiling. His green eyes practically sparkled in the sunlight, soft and inviting. One of them desperately needed punched. The camera snapped. “I’m sure your bodyguard over there could arrange that.”

Lorcan threw his head back and laughed handsomely. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Hardly enough time,” Rowan replied, dropping Lorcan’s hand to stride over to his waiting handler.

So it seemed their photoshoot was over. Kaltain handed Lorcan his leather jacket as he passed her on his way to the car. He couldn’t wait to crack open a bottle of Wendlyn’s famous wine and call Elide to complain about just how stuffy the prince was. And how much he couldn’t wait to hop back on the jet headed for home, sweet home.

☩ ☩ ☩

“Sweet, sweet Elide, how I’ve missed you!” Lorcan cried when she answered his facetime.

She rolled her eyes, black hair wrapped in a towel like she had just stepped out of the shower. “Lor, it’s been half a day. You’ll be back here tomorrow night,” she said. When she saw the bottle of wine he drank straight from, her onyx eyes narrowed. “You better be bringing me some back, you shit.”

“Yeah yeah, now can I tell you about my horrible day with His Royal Highness I-have-an-attendant-to-take-my-gloves?”

“Do I have a choice in this matter?”

“No, not really.”

Lorcan proceeded to tell Elide about his day, pacing back and forth across the carpet in his royal guest suite. It wasn’t quite what he expected, but still strange. A massive window faced the city and one of its many rivers, thin gossamer curtains doing little to stop any light from spilling across the floor. Lorcan didn’t mind the moonlight, preferring lamps over bright overhead lights.

In the moonlight and golden glow of the bedside lamp, the massive four-poster bed draped in golden bedding looked otherworldly. He was only mildly terrified he would fall asleep and wake up in a different era.

Some member of the palace staff left his luggage on the bed, as he discovered when he opened the door after arriving at River Palace. That was hours ago and since then it now lay all over the floor.

The River Palace reminded him of the prime minister’s manor. It had a history and more ghosts than he could ever count. He wasn’t unused to sleeping with ghosts, but this room felt forgotten and a bit too much like Ndede’s house after he and Lorcan’s mother divorced shortly after his ninth birthday. The next year, Vaughan came to live with them after his parents, Lorcan’s aunt and her husband, died in a car crash.

Ndede’s* house was built on the Surian cliffside and there was a path down to the beach, but Lorcan could never sleep in that house. It wasn’t home. It felt like this room, forgotten and waiting for someone to return. He used to sneak from his bed in the middle of the night and stand in the kitchen eating ice cream straight from the container, watching the waves far, far below bathed in starlight.

That was how it felt here, empty and quiet. He’s wide awake at midnight in a strange place, duty-bound to make it work.

Wandering into the kitchen down the hall, he talked quietly with Elide, who was still on the phone with him after all this time. He didn’t bother to turn on any of the lights, kicking the island by accident and swearing under his breath. Finally, he opened the freezer, hoping to see that they stocked his requested ice cream. Unfortunately, it’s the closest Doranelle had on such short notice.

Lorcan grumbled but unwrapped one of the chocolate dipped ice-cream cones, biting the little nub at the top off and tasting chocolate chip ice cream.

“How is it?” Elide asked.

“Not bad actually. Too bad they probably don’t sell these at home,” Lorcan replied. “Kinda tasty.”

Elide snorted, shaking her head as she watered one of her many plants. “You’re the PM’s kid, you say ‘jump’ and someone jumps. Now show me the River Palace.”

“Ellie, I’m not allowed to. I signed my life away even to be standing here.”

“Uh, when has that ever stopped you?” The light flared on and Lorcan hissed at the sudden brightness. Once Lorcan could open his eyes again without being blinded, he was met with the sight of the Prince of Wendlyn in boxers and a hoodie with glasses resting on the bridge of his nose and messy silver hair. His green eyes widened at seeing Lorcan. “Is thatーLorcan Salvaterre don’t you dare hang up on me!” Elide whisper-shouted. He hung up.

Rowan fingered the string of his hoodie. “Sorry. ErーI didn’t know you’d still be awake,” he said, more of a croak than anything.

The prince looked alarmingly human.

Lorcan sat himself on the granite countertop, the box of delicious things beside him. “Why are you invading my kitchen atー” He checked his phone. “ー2:49 in the morning without pants, prince? Some people would consider this a breach of national security.”

Padding across the kitchen, Rowan reached into the box at Lorcan’s side and took one out. “Nines.”

“What?”

“Nines.” He waved the ice cream cone in the air. “Don’t ask me why they’re called that, I don’t know.”

Lorcan drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Okay,” he trailed off. “You decided to raid your guest’s kitchen for _ice cream_?”

“Is that a crime?” Rowan asked, his green eyes turning steely. 

“Not that I know of.”

Wendlyn’s famous prince sat on the floor with his back resting against the cabinets, looking almost like a normal non-royal twenty-four year old. He stretched his leg out and something popped.

Lorcan snapped a photo of what the prince called Nines, captioned it something Elide would force him to say and geotagged the River Palace. There, done.

Down the hall, nails clicked on the tile. Lorcan frowned in confusion, gauging the prince to see what his reaction was. When a golden retriever ran in and immediately began licking Rowan’s face and trying to eat his ice cream, Lorcan held back his laugh.

“Fleetfoot, stop,” Rowan ordered, even though he was smiling. “I’m not sharing with you.”

Moments later, a breathless man ran into the kitchen, startled to see both of them. He hastily nodded to Lorcan, zeroing in on the escaped dog. “There you are, you little rascal.” Fleetfoot barked once.

“She’s fine, Fen,” Rowan said, stroking the dog’s head. “I’ll take her back to A’s room. You can go.” The man looked at Lorcan, then at the sweating box of Nines at his hip. Lorcan tossed him one and he grinned, teeth a blinding white against his dark skin.

“Thanks, mate,” the man said, turning back to the prince. “This time, I’m not going to tell Con or Emrys. Be back soon, though. Andー” He glanced back at Lorcan. “ーnice to meet you, Salvaterre.”

“Who?” Lorcan asked in utter confusion.

Rowan swallowed the last bite of his late night snack. “That’s Fenrys,” he answered, “he’s harmless.” Fleetfoot wanted to play, tugging at Rowan’s sleeve and nosing his leg.

Lorcan thought back to the man Rowan called Fenrys. He didn’t look harmless, that’s for sure. A few long scars trailed down the left side of his face. His long white-blonde hair was braided back in cornrows, pulled into a loose ponytail. Unlike Manon and the others, Fenrys didn’t wear all black, but rather a tee of cornflower blue and comfortable dark pants. He looked like he could snap Lorcan’s neck without a second thought.

A shiver ran through him.

“You should go,” Lorcan told the prince. “Clearly we’re done here.”

Rowan’s arms folded across his chest, a mask settling over his features. He was back on the defensive, Lorcan could tell. Their little moment of peace, or whatever it was, was over. “Of course. I won’t keep you.” His tone was polite, but an icy form of politeness.

As he left, he paused in the doorway to corral the bouncing golden retriever.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Lorcan called after him. The prince didn’t bother to respond.

Lorcan picked up the sweating box of Nines and put them back in the freezer, realising he was more than ready to fall into the massive bed and sleep like the dead. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

* * *

From the three offered outfits for the day curated by personal tailors, Rowan chose the second. He knew the navy tweed was a touch too formal, but his other options were black or black pinstripes that made him look like Gomez Addams. So the choice was simple, really.

Lysandra dragged her fingers through his damp hair, blow-drying it until it was soft and fluffy. Then she dipped the tips of her fingers in a tin of mousse, taking her time to care for his silver hair.

“Ro, honey,” she chuckled, ruffling his hair before beginning to style it, “you need a trim soon.” Rowan had never been more glad that Aedion’s wife was a hair stylist before marrying him. Aelin’s cousin needed someone a little more outgoing to loosen him up. A little while later, she patted his shoulder. “All done.”

Rowan reached up to touch his hair but she swatted his hand away. His silver hair was styled almost carelessly in a loose drag of her fingers from his forehead back, held in place by a bit of mousse and dab of styling gel.

“Thanks, Lysandra,” Rowan murmured, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

She kissed his cheek, spinning him around to admire her handiwork. “I think you look amazing. Now go have fun with Lorcan Salvaterre. And please, no strangling each other.”

Rowan gave her a look of _what the fuck_. “If anything, he’ll strangle me. Not the other way ‘round.”

Her laughter trailed him all the way to where Fenrys waited outside the door. Today, he wore a crisp black quarter-zip pullover with black slacks, steel-toed boots, and his classic sunglasses. Holstered on his hip was his beloved Beretta. Rowan knew a wicked dagger was sheathed at his ankle, although he didn’t truly need the weapons. His twin was dressed similarly, just without the sunglasses. Fenrys shot Rowan a reassuring smile, winking at him before sliding his sunglasses down in place as they stepped into the sun.

There in the cobblestoned outer bailey, Lorcan Salvaterre waited, leaning against the door of the black SUV with a glower. His onyx gaze dragged down Rowan, then back up. The white-haired woman at his side greeted Rowan’s own security with a shaking of hands and exchange of words.

“You clean up nice,” Rowan said in greeting, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his navy dress pants. It wasn’t a lie. Lorcan Salvaterre did clean up well. Whereas last night he had been barefoot and wearing a groutfit of grey sweats and a matching hoodie with his hair pulled up into a careless bun, now he looked like the Prime Minister of Terrasen’s son. He wore a cream blazer and matching slacks. Underneath was a dark green turtleneck. Silver rings glinted on his fingers, and Rowan saw a shine of silver as he turned his head to follow the noise of Emrys chatting with Kaltain. Lorcan’s dark hair was plaited in two braids, gleaming in the sunlight.

They were both dressed semi-formally, seeing as the network host preferred their viewers have a chance to really connect with special guests. Rowan was just glad he wasn’t the one wearing the turtleneck.

Interviewing a prince and a prime minister’s son was a catch they were eager to sink their hooks into.

“G’morning, Whitethorn,” Lorcan yawned, not even bothering to at least try and cover it.

They sat as far away from each other as they could in the backseat of the SUV, ignoring the other on the drive. Then they arrived at the broadcasting studio, ushered through a back door and up the stairs where a woman with makeup awaited their arrival. Lorcan swatted her away with a death glower. Rowan let her do her job. A few moments later, Kaltain had Lorcan sitting in a chair allowing the woman to apply a bit of matte powder to his skin. The poor woman looked terrified; Rowan didn’t blame her.

He did not want to be on the other end of Lorcan Salvaterre’s death glower.

They smiled their way through the interview, Lorcan even going so far as to lean back on the sofa and throw his arm around Rowan’s shoulders. The producers ate it up, whispering excitedly behind the camera. As soon as the camera turned off, Lorcan stood and stalked off, taking a travel cup of coffee from Manon without a word.

Fenrys and Connall escorted Rowan back to the car, the latter hopping into the driver’s seat. The former strapped on his black helmet and flipped the visor down, saluting Rowan through the tinted windows before roaring away with the car on his tail.

The announcement of their hospital visit was a surprise to the children’s ward staff as well as the patients themselves. A photographer took their pictures with the children before deeming them satisfactory and leaving. Then they were left alone, their security watching the entrances and exits.

Lorcan muttered something about a bathroom, disappearing down the hall.

Rowan stepped into a room, taking note of the girl’s name on the placard outside the door. Elsie. She was awake, watching a movie on the tv. Her dark brown eyes widened at seeing him walk in, and her mouth opened and closed before she settled on a squeak of, “Your Highness!” On her head was a knitted hat with a resistance pin.

With a chuckle, Rowan pulled a chair up to her side. “Just Rowan. And you’re Elsie.” She nodded, her cheeks flushing pink. She could have been no more than fourteen, yet already her life was slipping away. Emrys slipped him a card on the way in of all the cancer patients; she was one. “Ah, you’re watching _The Force Awakens_. Personally, I love _Return of the Jedi_.”

Elsie began shyly, talking about her favorite _Star Wars_ characters. Then she began to babble and Rowan nodded, following along to her every word. They discussed the best movies so far and their predictions for the new one coming out next year. He could hear in her voice that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to see it.

“All right Miss Elsie,” a nurse said brightly, “I think you’ve taken up quite a bit of the prince’s time here. And it’s time for your meds, love.” Behind the nurse, Rowan saw a figure stumble and fall, catching himself on the wall. Of course it would be Lorcan.

“But Miss Beth, Rowan’s my new mate! He can stay!” Elsie practically wailed.

“That’s no way to address royalty, Elsie. My apologies, Your Highness,” the nurse, Beth, curtsied in apology.

Rowan smiled and ruffled Elsie’s knitted hat. “No need to apologise,” he told the woman. “Anyhow, rebel commanders outrank royalty any day.” Elsie beamed up at him and even the nurse smiled. He bid them both goodbye, falling into step with the boy he was being punished with as they headed for the main area.

“So, …” Lorcan trailed off. “Star Wars. That wasn’t listed on the fact sheet.”

“And neither was being a pretentious ass,” Rowan replied, venom coating his words.

“Careful, princeling. I might start to think there’s an actual human being with feelings under there.” Lorcan jabbed his pointer finger into Rowan’s chest.

Before Rowan could reply, three things happened.

One: someone shouted from down the hall in the opposite direction.

Two: there was a loud popping that sounded alarmingly like gunfire.

Three: Manon dragged both Lorcan and Rowan to the nearest supply closet and shoved them inside. “Stay down and don’t make a sound,” she hissed, shutting the door and enclosing them in abrupt darkness.

Lorcan tripped over a mop and then Rowan’s leg, sending them both crashing to the cold tile floor with a stack of tin bedpans. Rowan landed on the bottom, with Lorcan Salvaterre laying on top of him.

“We have really got to stop ending up like this,” Lorcan muttered.

“Do you mind?” Rowan wheezed. Gods, he was heavy. The longer Lorcan laid on top of him, the less he could breathe.

“This is all your fault!”

“How is this _possibly_ my fault?” Rowan hissed.

“Y’know, in all the years I have been making public appearances, not once has someone tried to shoot me until you damned royals got involved!”

Rowan snorted, even though his lungs were slowly being crushed. “Oh, in all what? Three, four years that your mum’s been in office?”

“Shut the fuck up, Whitethorn.”

“Then keep laying on me. You’ll get your wish. And convicted of the crime of suffocating Wendlyn’s crown prince to death.”

Lorcan’s hands dug into Rowan’s spine, sending pain shooting through him, before the weight lifted and he could finally take a deep breath again. In the darkness, they tried to be quiet and shift into comfortable positions. It wasn’t easy. The prime minister’s son knocked over a broom and dustpan, fumbling to catch them and only succeeding in knocking more over.

“Will you shut up before you get us both killed?” Rowan spat, glaring at Lorcan even though he knew his companion couldn’t see it.

“Manon’s outside. We’ll be fine. It’s probably nothing. If they really wanted to kill us, they would have to get through her. I think they would be too dead to try anything at that point.”

“Then at least _get off me_.” But Rowan knew it was futile, there was barely enough space for one average sized-woman, let alone two men both over six foot. 

“Stop telling me what to do! You’re not the prince of me!”

“Oh, for the love of the gods.” He shoved his elbow backward, not expecting to hit something soft. Lorcan’s sudden release of air ruffled the hair on the back of Rowan’s neck. They fought for sitting positions, barely squeezing into the available space. Rowan’s feet ended up in an overturned mop bucket, his entire right side pressed into Lorcan’s side. He crossed his arms, accidentally but not really digging his elbow into Lorcan’s ribs.

Outside, there were running footstepsーnothing that sounded promising for an all-clear.

The rustling of fabric startled Rowan. “Are you really getting undressed right here and now? This is neither the time nor place forー”

Lorcan’s blazer hit Rowan in the face. “Guess we better get comfortable, Whitethorn. We’re gonna be here a while.”

Rowan was secretly glad it was dark, because the blush burning his cheeks couldn’t be seen. “Fantastic,” he huffed in annoyance. He confessed, “Just so you know, this is the first attempt on my life.”

“Oh, how cute. Nice to know we’re sharing this little first of ours.”

Clenching his hands into fists in the fabric of his pants, Rowan breathed deeply. He wouldn’t punch Lorcan Salvaterre. He wouldn’t punch Lorcan Salvaterre. Even if he desperately wanted to.

Lorcan’s elbow slammed into his side and he yelped, a hand slapped over his mouth. The silver of his rings was cold against Rowan’s skin. Rowan yanked the insufferable bastard sideways by his shirt, pinning him to the floor with a forearm digging into his collarbones, a hand fisted in the material of his turtleneck, and by laying halfway on top of him. His pulse thundered in his ears, anger coursing through his blood.

“So you _do_ have a little fight in you.” Rowan could hear the smile in Lorcan’s voice. Then the other boy bucked his hips, trying to dislodge him.

Rowan pressed harder on Lorcan’s collarbone, warring internally with the want to strangle him and keep his promise to Lysandra. “Are you quite finished, Lorcan Salvaterre?” he snarled. “Can you perhaps stop putting both of our godsdamned lives in danger now?”

“Aw, you do care,” Lorcan crooned. “I’m learning all your hidden depths today, princeling.”

“I cannot believe even mortal peril won’t prevent you from being the way you are.” Slumping off him, Rowan resigned himself to the fact that he would be stuck in this room with Lorcan fucking Salvaterre, of all people. How the gods loved to torture him.

* * *

Staring into the darkness, Lorcan folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. There was really no visible difference. He had a feeling Rowan was sitting on his cream blazer and getting it all dusty, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“So,” he said. “ _Star Wars_?” He meant to say it nonthreateningly, but his threatening nature pushed through and it came out as accusatory.

“Yes, Lorcan,” the prince snapped. “Believe it or not, the children of the crown do more than simply go to tea parties. Although I’m sure you would have a hard time wrapping your head around that.”

“I thought it was all posture coaching and polo practice.”

Wendlyn’s prince sighed deeply and unhappily. “That too.”

The toes of Rowan’s shoes dug into Lorcan’s thigh, uncomfortable but not necessarily painful. “You like pop culture, but you’re not allowed to.” It wasn’t a question or a truth, more like something falling in between the two, in the grey area. Rowan’s answer was a noncommittal hum. “If you don’t let me know anything real about you, as soon as we get in front of cameras people will know we’re full of shit. I signed a fucking contract and so I’m now honor-bound to be your best friend. Don’t be a fucking prick,” Lorcan hissed.

“All right, if you really want to have this conversation, then why exactly do you hate me so much?” Rowan asked, a little malice threading through his deep accent.

Lorcan sighed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. From the sliver of light coming through the crack between the door and the floor, he could see the prince’s profile. “Do you remember the Terrasen winter games a few years ago?” He, Elide and Vaughan had always gone. She for the figure skating, Lorcan for the snowboarding, and Vaughan for the skiing. And for the hot chocolate vendor who, even after years of seeing them beg for his recipe and try to bribe him with a wad of cash, refused to give them the recipe for his heavenly drink. That year, Lorcan and Elide were stuck with two of Antica’s royal brood and the Prince of Wendlyn himself for some bullshit headline and photo-op. No escaping for hot chocolate allowed. He did remember drinking too many black Russians and subsequently throwing them up in the overheated bathrooms while Manon, freshly hired, glowered at the door.

“Vaguely.”

“Great. Anyway, I introduced myself to you and you were colder than the dead of our wintersーkeep in mind this is the first time we met. You stared at me like I was the most offensive thing you had ever seen. I was walking away after shaking your hand when I heard you ask Emrys, ‘Can you get rid of him?’”

A pause.

“Ah,” Rowan murmured. He cleared his throat and there was the rustling of fabric as he shifted. “I didn’t think you heard that.”

“I think you’re missing the point here, princeling,” Lorcan grumbled. “Either way, it’s an asshole thing to say.”

“That’s … fair.”

Lorcan flipped off the patch of darkness with a crown of silver. “I’ll take my years-late apology now, thank you very much.”

There was a haughty snort from said patch of darkness. “Do you even know how to apologize?” Rowan asked.

“Y’know what? Fuck you.” Lorcan pushed himself to a cross-legged sitting position, resting his elbow on the prince’s knee as he retrieved his phone from the lefthand pocket of his pants. In his other pocket was a stolen candy bar, which was now partially melted and gooey as he tore open the wrapper. “Dammit,” he swore under his breath, sucking the melted chocolate off his fingers. Looking skyward, Lorcan silently hoped the gods would reward him for being nice and sharing his candy bar with his least favorite person in the entire world. He split it more 60-40 than evenly, keeping the bigger piece for himself.

“Hand,” Lorcan ordered. Rowan’s wrist landed in his palm and Lorcan put the partially melted snickers in his hand.

“Lorcan, if this is a bug I swearー”

“It’s a snickers, Whitethorn. Gods help me.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Thanking the gods he put his phone on do not disturb hours ago, Lorcan scrolled through their group chat. Elide and Vaughan were making fun of him and his Kaltain-ordained punishment, sending photos from the shoot yesterday with stupid captions.

> _i hate you both i hope you know that_

Elide laughed at his text, sending him a screenshotted moment of this morning’s interview, where Lorcan had his arm behind the silver-haired prince and was smiling at the camera.

> _you especially brat_

Within moments, she sent him a voice message. Lorcan pressed play. “Love you too, dumbass. Oh, and tell Ro-ro I say hi!” she chirped.

“Ro-ro?” the prince repeated in sheer confusion.

Lorcan was saved from answering by Manon opening the door. Her golden eyes appraised their squished positions and half-tangled limbs. “You two look cozy,” she said with a feral smile. Then it dropped, quickly and suddenly. She offered Lorcan a hand, yanking him to his feet first before helping the prince. “Follow me. It was a false alarm. Two dumbass kids brought in fireworks for their friend.”

“And you stuck us in a supply closet for that?” Lorcan scoffed.

Manon whipped around and yanked him down to her eye-level with a fist in his turtleneck. “Would you rather get shot?” she snarled.

 _No, ma’am,_ Lorcan replied in the witch language. The golden fire in her eyes simmered down before she led them to the others. At his side, Wendlyn’s prince knew better than to say anything. Smart bastard.

* * *

Rowan gladly accepted his handover from Manon Blackbeak to Fenrys and Connall, the woman’s white hair and golden eyes scaring him. 

There were two distinct groups in front of the black SUVs with tinted windows and bulletproof glass. One for the son of Terrasen’s prime minister. One for the prince of Wendlyn.

Why they weren’t leaving yet, Rowan didn’t know.

Then Lorcan was striding towards him. He held out his hand with his palm skyward, the one with the silver rings. Rowan frowned upward in confusion, still loathing the fact that he was shorter than Lorcan. “Gimme your phone,” Lorcan said. Rowan obeyed, confused. Before he knew it, Lorcan handed Rowan back his phone. The corners of his lips lifted into a half-smirk. “No booty calls, princeling,” he said, folding himself into a mock-bow before sauntering back to his security and the woman named Kaltain.

Rowan looked at the dimming screen of his phone. A single text read _this is definitely not wendlyn’s stuck-up princeling_ , sent to a number he knew was definitely Lorcan Salvaterre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ndede - father in Ojibwe
> 
> apologies for this chapter being so long but it just didn’t feel right to split it up. it clocks in at drumroll please… a whole fuckin lotta words: 5355 to be exact. i love lorcan’s outfit and will be taking no criticism


	5. four

The light drizzle did nothing to dampen Rowan’s spirits. Unleashed, Fleetfoot bounded alongside him as they ran through the palace gardens and down by the riverside on the jogging path. At this hour of the morning, the few people that were out didn’t spare their own prince a single glance.

Connall biked a short distance behind him, his twin sleeping in. Close enough to keep watch and make sure Rowan was safe, yet far enough to give him the space he so desperately needed.

After his shower and giving Aelin’s rascal of a dog a good rubbing with a dry towel until she was fluffy again, they headed to breakfast. Most days the Whitethorn family plus extras ate in the conservatory. Fenrys lounged at the table like he was familyーhe practically was. His twin knocked the blonde’s boots off the table, knocking him upside the head with a scone. Aelin was staring down at something, her brows furrowed as she scrolled, the screen hidden behind a thick constellation atlas. Her golden hair hung in front of her face, her crewneck and plaid flannel pajama pants not at all out of place. Rowan’s mother sipped her tea out of her favorite antique tea set, reading yet another mystery novel. How she hadn’t read the whole River Palace’s library yet, he didn’t know.

“Morning, mum,” Rowan murmured, stooping to kiss her cheek. “A’s got tech,” he whispered with a sly smile.

There were strict rules during family breakfasts. One, no technology of any kind. Two, no formally addressing anyone else unless the Queen joined them. Rule one was the most important. 

“Aelin Ashryver Galathynius,” Reyna Whitethorn scolded, “put that device down right this second. You know the rules.”

Aelin startled, nearly knocking over her glass of juice in her haste to pretend that she did not, in fact, have technology at the table. Then her gaze settled on Rowan and she narrowed her eyes. “You little snitchー” she hissed.

Rowan blew her a kiss, knowing it would irritate her even more. Fenrys snorted behind a ramekin of homemade yogurt dotted with blackberries bleeding purple.

“Sorry, Aunty Reyna,” Aelin apologized, all the while staring daggers at Rowan. “Won’t happen again. I just wanted to see the headlines from this weekend.”

“And it couldn’t wait until after breakfast?” Rowan’s mother asked.

“Well, I mean it could …” Aelin admitted begrudgingly.

“My girl, what are you waiting for? Bring it over here.”

“Mum!” Rowan cried as Aelin’s eyes lit up.

His mother glanced up at him, her dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, hush,” she smiled, making room for Aelin. “And Fenrys, stop sneaking Fleetfoot ham. She’s spoiled enough already.”

Fenrys snapped to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rowan grumpily stabbed a waffle and put it on his plate, taking Aelin’s vacated seat across the table. He topped it with syrup, a bit of whipped cream, and fresh-cut strawberries. There was a bowl of mango across the table that he took as well, eating it like he was a starving man.

With Aedion and Lysandra on their honeymoon, there was no one he could complain to about the blatant betrayal by the women in his life.

Well, there was one person. But he didn’t know if he wanted to text him yet.

Aelin burst into laughter across the table, his own mother snickering. “What?” Rowan demanded. His cousin waved her hand in a gesture that he knew meant _show him_ , and next thing he knew he was being handed the ipad and told to read the highlighted comment.

 _omg_ , they wrote, _make out already_

It was under a blog post full of photos and animated GIFs of him and Lorcan from this weekend. That moment during the interview where Lorcan slung his arm around Rowan’s shoulders. Conspiratorial glances. Shared smiles that could pass for genuine. Most of the other comments were about how handsome they were, how nice they looked together.

Except for that one.

“Give it back. I gotta send that to Ellie,” Aelin snickered, snatching her ipad out of Rowan’s hands.

“Who’s Ellie?” Rowan asked in complete and utter confusion through a mouthful of half-chewed waffle and strawberry, manners be damned.

The golden-blonde gave him such a scathing look he felt like the flesh would melt off his bones. “Elide Lochan, stupidhead.”

“Oh.” He knew enough that Lorcan, Elide, and Vaughan were inseparable. So once Elide knew, that would mean the insufferable bastard would know, sooner rather than later. That was probably also where Elide got Ro-ro fromーhis very own cousin. “Delightful,” he muttered, angrily stabbing a piece of

* * *

Lorcan’s phone vibrated during his steel class. He sat in the middle of the lecture hall, Manon standing guard up above and Sorrel guarding the door. Asterin posed as a student, sitting a few seats to his left with her laptop and notebook doing gods know what. The boy sitting in front of him turned back to glare, but Lorcan glared right back and his face paled.

It was an attached image from Elide. _from aelin, with love_ she wrote underneath.

Opening the image, Lorcan rolled his eyes. The comment circled in obnoxious purple highlighter was impossible to miss. _omg,_ the commenter wrote, _make out already_

 _tell her she can suck my dick. please._ Lorcan responded, turning his phone facedown next to his notebook. When his phone vibrated again, he ignored it until the end of class. Elide could wait.

Gathering his stuff and his bodyguards, he strolled through campus to his favorite coffee shop where Elide was already settled in and scrolling through her phone. She looked up when he sat down, oohing when he handed her a donut from the bakery down the block.

“Where’s V?” he asked, taking a bite of his raspberry paczki.

“His coding class doesn’t end until noon,” Elide yawned. “Oh, and Aelin told me to tell you to go fuck yourself.” Lorcan laughed, glad to know that some things still hadn’t changed over the years.

He walked Elide to her next class, ruffling her hair affectionately before she could swat his hand away. Taking out his phone as he headed to his own class, he finally checked the notifications. The text he got during his steel class surprisingly wasn’t from Elide, but rather a number he didn’t know.

It was a photo of a laptop paused to show Chewbacca shooting a storm trooper. From which movie, Lorcan didn’t know. Chewie shot them in every single movie.

 _I think I finally found someone taller than you._ Then there was a second message, time-stamped a minute later. _This is Rowan, by the way._

Lorcan stopped in the middle of the campus sidewalk, people glaring and muttering as they were forced to swerve around him.

> _how DARE you disrespect chewie whitethorn_

Walking again, he saved the Prince of Wendlyn’s number as Princeling. Short, sweet, simple. To the point. The reply came hours later, as he was trying to watch _The Princess Bride_ with Elide. Her choice, not his. Vaughan was off doing something that neither bothered to ask. He preferred his solitude; they didn’t pester him.

> My apologies, Salvaterre.

That was not worthy of a reply. Lorcan tossed his phone onto the glass coffee table with an exasperated sigh, falling facedown into the couch cushion. Elide threw a piece of popcorn at him with a glare, gesturing angrily to the movie playing on the flatscreen. He picked it off the blanket and tossed it in his mouth, snapping his teeth at her. From that point on, Elide pointedly ignored him until the movie ended.

They started another movie, this time Lorcan’s choice: _Jurassic Park._ The original one, of course. The new ones were okay, but they would never compare to the first.

Vaughan padded in half an hour into the movie with a crinkling bag from their favorite fast food joint. He handed them each a paper container of chicken nuggets, settling himself in the other chair like the one Elide claimed.

“Gods, yes,” Lorcan groaned through a mouthful of chicken nuggets. “V, I love you so so so much.” Elide mumbled her agreement, too consumed with savoring her own midnight snack.

Vaughan’s laugh was deep. “You two are no better than those dinosaurs,” he told them with a shake of his head. Even though he was only a year older than them, the difference in maturity felt more like years.

Both Lorcan and Elide flipped him off.

The credits rolled. His cousin had gone to bed not long ago, giving Lorcan a look that meant he was responsible for cleaning up the movie room. Elide was passed out on her chair, the blanket tucked under her chin. She looked so peaceful, but he knew she would murder him if he left her to sleep there the rest of the night.

“Ellie, hey, wake up,” he whispered, gently moving her shoulder back and forth. Elide grumbled, snuggling herself deeper into the warmth of her blanket. Lorcan sighed, leaving her to sleep in peace a bit longer as he gathered the trash and put the dishes on a tray to be taken back to the kitchens. She resisted his waking her up twice more. So finally he gave in, scooping her up, blanket and all, and carrying her to her bedroom.

Asterin grabbed their forgotten phones and his half-empty water bottle, trailing Lorcan and opening the door to Elide’s room. She pulled back the blankets, backing out to give him room. Lorcan laid Elide down, drawing the covers up after placing her stuffed manatee in her arms.

“Night, you spoiled brat,” he whispered, plugging her phone in before shutting the door. Asterin leaned against the wall across the hall, the glowing screen of her phone illuminating her face. “Night, Asterin.” Lorcan yawned, shutting his own door and flopping onto his bed. Rolling onto his back on top of the comforter, he cracked his back with a muffled groan.

Flipping onto his stomach and crawling under the covers, he scrolled through his own social media. Prince Sartaq’s official instagram account posted photos of him with his girlfriend and his plane. His snapchat was another story. Nesryn flipped the camera off, making to slam the wrench in her hand against the silver metal. In the background, Sartaq squawked and the video abruptly ended. Lorcan had met Nesryn a few times, Antica’s golden boy only twice. Both were kind and he genuinely liked them.

Unlike the silver-haired Prince of Wendlyn.

* * *

> _nice tits_

> _TATS ffs_

Rowan received a scathing glare from the Crown’s minister of finance after reading Lorcan’s text and snorting a laugh. On today’s agenda of _I would rather stab myself in the eye with a dull pencil_ , Rowan was subjected to listening to a boring, balding man drone on and on about the money his deceased father left in trust for him and his yearly stipend from the royal coffers. He didn’t want the empire’s blood money, those close to him knew it. Anyhow, there was more than enough money from his father’s years in the film industry to pay for a life of luxury. Money that wasn’t paid for in blood.

As soon as the meeting was over, he fled to the sanctity of the library. Fleetfoot trotted alongside him. Rowan didn’t understand why Aelin’s dog liked him more than her.

Sinking into his favorite upholstered chair that happened to be big enough for him and the golden retriever, Rowan typed a response. Read it over. Deleted it. Tried again. Hated that one, too.

> I’m afraid to ask how often you’ve sent someone ‘nice tits’ that that’s what it gets autocorrected to.

Stroking Fleetfoot’s head, Rowan tried to focus on the book he was reading. He couldn’t. Unlocking his phone, he saw the typing bubbles that meant Lorcan was responding. Rowan set his phone facedown on the arm of the chair. Picked it back up. Set it back down. Tried to get comfortable, which wasn’t easy with a dog the weight of a small child on his stockinged feet.

Then his phone buzzed and he picked it up immediately, reading Lorcan’s reply with a bitten-down smile.

> _im not gonna respond to that_

> Just further proves your guilt.

Lorcan simply sent him the middle finger emoji. Rowan laughed, the sound echoing in the silence of the library. Their conversation had come to a pause, yet he wanted it to continue. Talking to Lorcan, even though he was thousands of miles across an ocean, felt so natural.

* * *

Lorcan smiled at his phone for what felt like the thousandth time that day, hating how easy it was to talk with Prince Rowan Whitethorn.

“Who are you talking to?” Elide asked, right in Lorcan’s ear. He startled, locking his phone before she got the chance to see who exactly he was texting. “You’ve got that stupid smile again. Locking your phone? Lorcan, that is so immature.” She came around to be in front of him instead of behind, looking over his shoulder. When she attempted to snatch his phone, all she got was empty air. Height was Lorcan’s advantage, one he utilized as Elide reached for his phone. Thus began the barrage of questions. “Are you watching videos of Borte kicking ass in the boxing ring again? Are you reading fanfic? Without me? You know that’s a crime. Wait, did you see the one I sent you earlier about you making out with Chaol? It’s so bad it’s good.”

Gagging and mimicking vomiting, Lorcan shook his head. Chaol Westfall was boring times infinity. A lord of Adarlan and close friend of Adarlan’s prince, he often accompanied Dorian to high society gatherings and parties. Ones which Lorcan was also subjected to attending.

With the lull in his defense, Elide jumped and grabbed his phone, cackling in victory. Then she fixed Lorcan with a glare he swore she learned from Kaltain. “You had _the audacity_ to get rid of my face?” she hissed. (He hadn’t, apparently it just wasn’t working for her at the moment.) “Boys and their fuckingーhold on a second. You, YOU, are texting ROWAN WHITETHORN?” she screeched. “I thought you hated his guts.”

“He texted me,” Lorcan whined. It felt fitting to blame it all on the prince because he did, in fact, text first. “And I do hate him.”

Elide narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Lies. You are lying. Wasn’t it only last summer that you had a Prince Rowan voodoo doll? Or wait, was it the dartboard with his face on it?” She tossed him his phone back. “But I am a good friend, so I shall not snoop. Although, I feel betrayed. I am always the first to know about any horrible interaction you have with Ro-ro, online or in person.” Her grin was terrifying. “Sooooo, got anything to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Get out of my sight. You disgust me.” Elide stomped toward the door, about to slam it when she suddenly turned around with the innocent face that Lorcan hated. “All will be forgiven if you bring me ice cream and at least send me one, no two, screenshots.”

Lorcan pretended to think about it. There was still half a case of the wine he smuggled back from Wendlyn in the cellar. Ice cream and wine always distracted her. But this time, he had a feeling she wouldn’t let up. “I’ll think about it,” he told her, hiding a smile.

She harumphed, slamming the door on her way out.

☩ ☩ ☩

Balls-deep in his textbook and holding the end of his highlighter between his teeth, Lorcan barely paid attention to the text notification that dinged through both his phone and laptop. He had been working on this calculus for hours and he just wanted to get it done. There were multiple pens and a mechanical pencil stuck in the mess of his hair, simply because he did not have enough hands and was liable to lose them on the mess that was his desk.

When he finished the last problem, he slumped back in his chair in blessed relief.

His phone buzzed again, sounding angry, if that was even possible. Vaughan reminded him that it was time for dinner.

Family dinners were less over-the-top than everything else that happened in the manor. The Lochan and Salvaterre families joined in the game room, ordering take-out of whatever the majority vote was, drinking, and playing games. Or they watched hockey. If Elide’s parents couldn’t join, she was just lumped in with Lorcan and Vaughan as one of Citana’s children. She practically was anyway.

Standing and stretching deliciously until his back and neck cracked, Lorcan padded to the game room. A flatscreen mounted on the wall played the night’s hockey game; the Orynth Stags were beating the Perranth Penguins 2-1. Elide gave Lorcan a dirty look, still miffed that he wouldn’t let her read over his shoulder. Vaughan simply gestured to the boxes of pizza on the table.

Lorcan opened one of the last two unopened boxes, guessing wrong and finding his mother’s pizza. The last box had his, pepperoni with black olives. Elide, like the psychopath that she was, liked pineapple and bacon on half of hers; the other half was plain cheese.

After the Incident two years ago where the Thirteen misread Lorcan and Elide’s shouting match because their pizza toppings got mixed up and almost put the entire manor and surrounding area on lockdown, they now each got their own pizzas.

“You’re late,” Elide spat, stretching her legs out across the rest of the couch when Lorcan tried to sit down. He sat down slowly, giving her ample time to move her feet from his spot. When she didn’t and he sat on her, she whacked him hard in the arm with the remote. “Get off me!”

“Maybe if you moved I wouldn’t have sat on you!” Lorcan shot back, his voice raising to a near shout. His fuse was nearly burned down from homework and stupid people in his classes and if she kept going, he would explode. 

Vaughan didn’t even try to intervene, knowing any efforts on his part would be futile until they made up. Instead, he continued eating his pizza, watching the game intently.

Before Lorcan and his not-sister could get into an actual fight, his mother walked in, releasing two inches of zipper on her skirt and draping her suit jacket on the back of one of the many chairs. Then she threw on a crewneck from her own university days, dragging a hand through her meticulously straightened hair. That meant she was officially done for the day.

Kicking off her heels, she strode over to kiss the top of Lorcan’s head and ruffle his hair. Oblivious to the tension between her son and her surrogate daughter, she flopped between them. Elide quickly scooted her legs out of the way. Scoffing after a few moments with no reply from either of them, she shook her head. “Hello, children,” she announced.

“‘Lo, Mama,” Lorcan mumbled through a mouthful of pizza. Elide said something similar and Citana Salvaterre groaned.

“Good gods, look what I’ve done to them,” she complained. “Absolutely no manners. Like a couple of opossums. When they say women can’t have it all, this is what they mean.”

Vaughan smiled from his chair.

Now that it was just the four of them, seeing as the elder Lochans were on a diplomatic trip right now, they switched to the indigenous language of Terrasen. Elide shot him glares more than once, making not-so-subtle gestures to his phone. Once the hockey game ended, they opened a bottle of white wine Lorcan didn’t steal from Wendlyn and teamed up to play pool, boys vs girls.

Elide clung to him as Lorcan led them back to their rooms. She kicked open his door, starfishing herself facedown on his bed. It seemed their earlier argument had been forgotten, at least for now. By the time Lorcan returned from the bathroom, she was asleep. They often shared a bed, so it wasn’t like it was strange for them to wake up together after drinking, Elide curled up in his arms. Before he maneuvered her under the covers and kicked her to the far side of his bed, Lorcan sent one last text to his royal enemy.

Were they friends now? Or still the perfect mutual antagonists just playing at friendship?

He didn’t care to think about it right then.

> _aelin ever steal ur bed and u get 2 inches? bc elide does. spoiled brat_

> _gnight whitethorn_

He liked talking to the silver-haired Prince of Wendlyn. And that scared him more than anything.

* * *

Emrys handed Rowan a package. The older man rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “Palace security thought this was a bomb. Please tell him not to send us any more mysterious packages,” Emrys said. “Now, there’s nothing left on your schedule for the rest of the day, so I’m going home, that okay with you?”

Rowan nodded, thanking Emrys. “Tell Malakai I said hi!” he called after his handler.

Meeting Aelin in one of the River Palace’s many sunrooms facing the river, he sat on the daybed and struggled to open his mysterious package from one Terrasen Offices of the Prime Minister. Aelin played the piano elegantly, her focus on the sheet of music before her and less on him.

From inside the plastic packaging spilled a sea of Citana Salvaterre buttons, every single one of them with Lorcan’s official portrait. Discordant notes filled the room as Aelin slammed her hands on the keys of the piano and the metal buttons hit the floor, rolling everywhere. There was a piece of folded paper inside the packaging. Rowan unfolded it, reading silently and struggling to read Lorcan’s messy handwriting.

_Just trying to brighten up your wardrobe, princeling. It’s very drab ー L_

“Ow!” Rowan cried, the button Aelin threw hitting him in the head.

She snatched the note out of his hands, reading it aloud. “Praise Mala, this deserves to go right in the fire. Princeling, Rowan? Really? Good gods, I can’t believe you have a crush on him. Your taste in men is shit.”

“Shut up,” Rowan snapped. “You don’t get to talk. You dated Chaol Westfall for two years.”

Aelin grimaced. She crumpled the note up into a ball and threw it back at him, sinking back onto her piano bench with an angry huff. Thus began the loud, angry classical music she dragged from the instrument.

Rowan pulled his phone from his pocket, opening his texts to the thread with Lorcan.

> I hope this gross miscarriage of campagin funds is worth it to you. My security thought it was a bomb. Emrys almost called in the sniffer dogs.

Lorcan’s reply came a few minutes later.

> _oh, definitely worth it. even more worth it now_

“I hate him,” Rowan muttered. “I hate him so godsdamned much.”

Without even looking at him, Aelin replied, “No, you don’t.”

No, he didn’t.

The better he got to know Lorcan Salvaterre, the harder he found it not to fall for him. Even when he did stupid, annoying things like send Rowan a package of his mother’s campaign buttons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they’ve officially begun texting !! I love platonic elorcan so you’ll be getting lots of them throughout the story sorry not sorry
> 
> also, rowan's texts are indented but not italicized. lorcan's are indented and italicized


	6. five

“It’s public knowledge. It’s not my fault you just found out,” his mother said, striding down the hall toward her next meeting.

Lorcan had to awkwardly jog to keep up with her. “You mean to tell me that every year, they put those stupid turkeys in a room at the Luna paid for by the taxpaying people of Terrasen? I don’t even like turkey!”

“Yes, Lorcan, they doー”

“A waste of money!”

“ーand right now there are two turkeys named Saffron and Cerise in a motorcade on Ashryver Avenue. There’s no time to find them other lodgings.”

Without missing a beat, Lorcan blurted, “Bring them here.”

Citana raised an eyebrow, eyeing him skeptically. “Have you been hiding a turkey habitat here without my knowledge? This is a historically protected house; there’s nowhere to put them until I pardon them tomorrow.”

“Put them in my room. I don’t care.”

She laughed and he heard a snort from Vesta, who’s trailing them. “No.”

“How is it any different from a hotel room? Put the turkeys in my room, Mama.”

“I am not putting them in your room.”

“Put the turkeys in my room.”

“No.”

“Put them in my room put them in my room put them in myー”

As Lorcan stared at the turkeys now taking up a portion of his floor space, he regretted annoying his mother until she agreed, just to make him go away. Elide was asleep across the hall, but she had warned him against waking her because of his own stupidity on pain of death.

So he was left to suffer, alone.

Vaughan was coming back tomorrow afternoon from his trip to visit their grandmother and his father’s side of the family. Which meant Lorcan couldn’t seek refuge from the beady eyed monsters with his cousin.

It left one person: His Royal Highness Rowan Whitethorn, Prince of Wendlyn.

> _THEY KNOW. THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF THEIR FIVE-STAR ACCOMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM. AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH_

Saffron eyed him, ruffling his feathers as if perturbed. Every few hours, a farm vet would come by to check on them. She reassured Lorcan he would be fine overnight with them, but he didn’t trust her. Or the birds.

From the en suite came the ominous gobble of Cerise.

Lorcan would’ve much rather been stuck deep in the Oakwald where the famous wolves who could tear a man’s head from his shoulders roamed than in his own bedroom with two flightless birds with murder in their eyes. 

Tonight, he had plans to get things done. First, finish the bridge design in CAD he had been putting off for days now. Then catch up on his witch language studies; Manon gave them vocab lists every other Monday and then they were quizzed that Sunday. After that, he had every intention of being lazy and watching a movie in bed.

But now? Now he was trapped in a prison of his own making, forced to baby-sit the turkeys until their official pardoning tomorrow morning and slowly coming to the realisation of his deep-seated fear of large birds. He supposed he could escape to the movie room and sleep on the couch, but he didn’t want to wake up in the morning to these demons having escaped in the middle of the night and murdered each other, much less him.

Rowan’s reply dragged him out of his current state.

> Please send photos.

Crawling to the edge of his bed, Lorcan snapped a photo of the feathered demon and pressed send, flinching when Saffron ruffled his feathers again. He had grown accustomed to texting Rowan at ungodly hours of day and night. Sometimes he’ll get a reply immediately, sometimes it’s a few hours.

 _I think he’s cute,_ Rowan responded.

> _that’s bc you can’t hear all the menacing gobbling_

> Yes, famously the most sinister of all sounds: the gobble.

“Y’know what, you little shit,” Lorcan said as soon as the call connected, “you can hear if for yourself and tell me how you would handle thisー”

“Lorcan?” Rowan’s voice was rough and bewildered on the other end of the line. “Have you really called me at three in the morning to make me listen to a turkey?”

“Obviously,” Lorcan sniped. Who did the prince think he was, complaining of Lorcan calling at odd hoursーthen it hit him. Up until this point, they had only texted. Never called, never heard the other’s voice except in person. Most definitely never phoned in the middle of the night.

Ignoring whatever feeling gnawed at him, he continued. “Praise Hellas, it’s like they can see into my _soul_. Saffron knows my sins, Ro. Saffron knows what I have done, and he’s here to make me atone.”

He heard rustling over the phone and a quiet click. Then the muffled whispers of Rowan talking to his dog before his voice returned to Lorcan’s ear. The prince’s accent was thick as he said, “Let’s hear the cursed gobble then.”

“Okay, brace yourself,” Lorcan said, switching to speaker and inching toward the end of his bed, holding out his phone.

Nothing. Ten long, harrowing seconds of nothing.

Rowan’s voice was tinny through the speakers. “Truly harrowing.”

Lorcan swore in his native language. Switching back to English, he said hotly, “Itーokay, this is notーthey’ve been gobbling all fucking night, I swear.”

A sarcastic hum. “Sure they were.”

“No, hang on,” Lorcan muttered. “I swear to the gods, I’m gonna get one to gobble."

Rowan sighed on the other end. Lorcan flipped his phone off, knowing the bastard princeling couldn’t see it but feeling better for doing it. Hopping off the safety of his bed, Lorcan edged up to Saffron’s crate, feeling very much like he was taking his life into his own hands and also very much like he had a point to prove.

“Um, how do you even get a turkey to gobble?” Lorcan asked.

“Try gobbling at it,” Rowan replied, sounding exasperated.

Lorcan blinked. “Are you serious?”

“We hunt loads of turkeys in the spring,” Rowan said sagely. “The trick is to get in the mind of the turkey.”

“How in gods’ names do I do that?”

“So,” Rowan instructed, “do as I say. You have to get quite close to it, like physically.”

Lorcan inched closer to the crate, cradling his phone close. “Okay, now what?”

“Make eye contact with the turkey? Do you have it?”

Following the prince’s instructions, Lorcan crouched and met Saffron’s black, beady little eyes filled with bloodlust. A chill ran down his spine and he shivered. “Yeah.”

“Right, now hold it,” Rowan whispered. “Connect with the turkey, earn his trust … befriend the turkey…”

“Okay…”

“Buy a summer home in Eyllwe with the turkey…”

“Oh, I _fucking_ hate you!” Lorcan shouted as Rowan laughed at his own idiotic prank, one he fell for so easily. His indignant flailing startled a loud gobble out of Saffron, an answering one coming from Cerise, which in turn startled a very unmanly scream out of Lorcan. “ _Godsdammit!_ Did you hear them?” Fleeing to the safety of his bed, Lorcan burrowed under the many layers and tried to hide from the evil birds.

“Sorry, what?” Rowan asked. “I’ve been stricken deaf.”

“You are such a _dick,_ ” Lorcan spat. “Have you ever actually been turkey hunting?”

Rowan’s chuckle was light. “Lorcan, you can’t even hunt them here.”

Lorcan liked the sound of his name rolling off the Prince of Wendlyn’s tongue a bit too much. Pulling the blankets over his head, he grumbled, “I hope Saffron does kill me.”

“No, all right. I did hear it,” the prince said. “It was properly frightening. Anyway, where’s Elide in all this?”

“She threatened to kill me if I bothered her because this is all my own fault anyway. I’d rather die by turkey than by Elide.”

“That’s fair. So what are you going to do now? Stay up all night with them?”

“I guess,” Lorcan mumbled.

* * *

Rowan had been in the middle of watching Wendlyn’s baking show, slowly drifting off into sleep, when his phone rang. Aelin and Lys were out partying, Aedion making sure they didn’t do anything too, too crazy. 

Answering, he barely had time to mumble a greeting before Lorcan was practically berating him in his ear. Now, fifteen minutes later, Rowan stroked Fleetfoot’s head, his phone on the coffee table and airpods connected as he listened to Lorcan.

Before Aelin had left, she threw open his door in a sinfully short metallic gold dress and black leather jacket, tossing him a bag of chocolates from his favorite shop and one of her favorite sheet masks. Rattling a jar of kibble, Aelin set it on his desk and Socks came running in. Rowan groaned. Aelin just smiled, telling him to take good care of her baby while she was gone. _Have fun!_ she crooned.

Said sheet mask was now on his face and he was slowly eating his way through the bag of chocolates while the baking show played in the background. Socks was asleep on his chair, thankfully not shredding it with his razor-sharp claws.

“Aren’t there other rooms you could sleep in?” Rowan suggested, popping a raspberry-flavored chocolate truffle into his mouth.

“Okay, but what if they escape? I’ve seen _Jurassic Park_. Did you know birds are directly descended from raptors? That’s a scientific fact. Raptors in my bedroom, Rowan. And you want me to go to sleep like they’re not gonna bust out of their enclosures and take over the island the minute I close my eyes? Okay. Maybe your ass.”

Fleetfoot yawned, getting up and spinning thrice before dropping her head on Rowan’s thigh with a loud huff. “I’m really going to have you offed,” Rowan told him, scratching the golden retriever’s ears. “You’ll never see it coming. Our assassins are trained in discretion. They’ll come in the night, and it will look like a humiliating accident.”

“Autoerotic asphyxiation?”

“Toilet heart attack.”

“Gods.”

“You’ve been warned.”

An ocean away, Lorcan’s voice dropped into something Rowan couldn’t quite place. “I thought you’d kill me in a more personal way. Silk pillow over my face, slow and gentle suffocation. Just you and me. Sensual.”

Rowan choked out a laugh. “Ha. Well.” He tried so hard not to let his imagination take the idea and run with it, scavenging what it liked and leaving what it didn’t. Closing his eyes, he tried to corral his thoughts. Instead, all he saw was Lorcan fucking Salvaterre beneath him, his long dark hair spilling across Rowan’s pastel blue sheets, his lips parted as he moaned Rowan’s name.

“Anyway,” Lorcan interrupted, dragging Rowan back to the present and out of his traitorous imagination. “It doesn’t matter ‘cause one of these godsdamned turkeys is gonna kill me first.”

“And what a tragedy that shall be,” Rowan intoned.

“Go away.”

“You called me.”

“Wait, what are you even doing right now?” Lorcan pestered, seemingly not wanting to end their call.

Just as Rowan was about to reply, Socks awoke. The cat stretched and got ready to sharpen his claws on the chair. “Oi!” Rowan shouted. “Off the chair, you bastard! Socks!” Aelin’s devil cat merely gave him an unimpressed look, keeping eye contact as he began to scratch. “You fuckingー” Rowan leapt off his bed in record speed, catching the feline culprit before he could attempt to flee. Holding the cat up at eye-level, he hissed, “What have I told you about sharpening your claws on my chair? If I feed you, will you be good?” Fleetfoot circled Rowan’s legs, barking sharply once because she heard the mention of food. Socks wriggled, wanting to be put down. “Yes or no?” He mewed in answer. Satisfied, Rowan set the cat down and scooped a handful of kibble onto a clean plate. Fleetfoot got half a scoop of her own food, then Rowan curled back up on his lounge, rewinding the show to watch what he had missed.

Lorcan’s voice returned in his ear and Rowan nearly jumped. “Who’s Socks?”

“Aelin’s stupid cat,” Rowan grumbled. “That bastard loves scratching my favorite chair. Has a thousand scratching pads all over the house and a whole cat tree in her rooms, but he chooses _my_ chair. Yes, you bastard, I am talking about you.” The cat in question began cleaning himself methodically.

“You never answered my question.”

“Gods, fine. I’m watching a baking show…”

Lorcan seemed to pick up on the silence Rowan left. “And?”

“Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got one of those peely face masks on.”

“Amazing.”

“I regret telling you that,” Rowan said, patting his leg and beckoning Fleetfoot back up

“Y’know,” Lorcan said, “you’re kinda surprising.”

Rowan paused, unsure if this was going to be a compliment or an insult. “In what way?”

“In that you’re not a totally boring asshole.”

“Wow,” Rowan let out a small laugh. “A compliment of the highest order.” He heard Lorcan yawn and the rustling of fabric. “Lorcan,” he said firmly.

“Mmhmm?”

“If you’re so tired, go to bed.”

“‘M already in bed, princeling.”

“Then go to sleep.”

“Turkeys.”

“Good gods. You will be fine. They aren’t going to _Jurassic Park_ you.”

“You ‘on’t know that.”

“Lorcan Salvaterre, go to sleep.” Rowan hated his prince voice, and he had a feeling it won’t work on him, but he tried anyway.

Lorcan’s reply was haughty. “You go to bed.”

Rowan smiled. “I will, as soon as you get off the phone, ‘kay?”

“Okay.” A pause. “What if they gobble again?”

“Just go to sleep, Lorcan.”

They each went through a series of “Okay”s, both unsure of how to end the call. Finally, Lorcan murmured a sleepy good night and ended the call.

Rowan went to the bathroom and pulled the facemask off, rubbing the excess goo into his skin before brushing his teeth and dragging wet fingers through his hair. Then he handed Connall an unhappy cat and jar of cat food, shutting the door and turning off the lights. Fleetfoot hopped up onto the end of his bed, nosing her way up to snuggle with Rowan.

“Fleetfoot,” Rowan whispered, kissing her nose. “I’m in such deep, unending shit.” The golden retriever quietly woofed her agreement, licking his chin.

* * *

Lorcan loved winter because of the winter games and Yulemas. But he didn’t like Yulemas because it meant his father came to visit. Tensions skyrocketed, his mother and father either getting along like a house on fire or ready to tear each others’ throats out. Vaughan chose to stay with them, something Lorcan was infinitely thankful for.

Elide kissed his cheek, hugging him tight. Her bags were packed and her car waited. She always went home to visit her parents for Yulemas. Elide patted his chest right above his heart. “Lor, it’s not like I’m going away forever. I’ll be back in three days,” she murmured soothingly.

“Yeah yeah, I know,” he replied. He squeezed her so tight she squeaked, kicking his shin in demand to be let down. “Ow, you brat. We _agreed_ kicking the shins was off limits.” But his smile was genuine, and that seemed to be what she wanted.

“I’m only a phone call away, okay? Call me if you need anything. Love you.”

Lorcan watched her roll her suitcase at her side, meeting her own of the Thirteen outside the door. Snow fell in thick flakes from grey skies, coating the sidewalks and trees.

Rolling his shoulders back, he turned and headed off to face the wolves.

Nikolai Hudson arrived in a flurry of his own personal security, his bright blue eyes searching the hall and settling on Lorcan with a smile. Lorcan looked almost exactly like his mother, something he was glad for. His father had blonde hair, olive skin, and bright blue eyes. When they stood together in family photos, they looked like they didn’t quite match.

“Hi, Ndede,” Lorcan said quietly, hugging his father.

“Hey, kiddo,” Nikolai laughed. “Jeez, you’ve got to stop growing. It’s only been a few months and I swear you’ve grown another inch.” They caught up on what had happened in the months since they last saw each other as Lorcan walked his father to his rooms. Inside, his mother waited.

“Nikolai,” she said coldly.

His father only smiled. “Long time no see, Citana.”

Lorcan slunk off as they talked, heading downstairs to the coatroom. Manon trailed him, her voice low in her earpiece as Lorcan donned his winter coat, boots, and a hat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he stalked outside to the pond. It was frozen and covered in snow, but there was a bench and it was fairly quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see both Manon and Asterin standing guard.

No one would bother him out here.

Once his fingers were significantly frozen and he couldn’t feel his toes, Lorcan headed back inside, requesting cocoa from the kitchen and changing into warm, dry clothes. He curled up in Elide’s chair in the movie room, turning on the tv and flipping through the channels until he stumbled upon a Bond marathon, starring no other than Rowan’s father.

> _yo there’s a bond marathon and did you know your dad was a total babe_

Rowan’s reply was instantaneous.

> I BEG YOU TO NOT

Lorcan laughed, allowing himself to get caught up in the movies and forget about everything else.

☩ ☩ ☩

Stepping into the dining room set with the fancy plates, Lorcan immediately went to his grandmother. She sat at the head of the table, the first one to arrive. He was second.

 _How is your schooling going, Lorcan?_ she asked.

Lorcan pulled out a chair, sitting down and resting his elbows on his knees. _I’m almost done,_ nokoma _. I was thinking, you know how there’s that bridge you’re always complaining about on the way in? Once I graduate and join a firm, I could design a new bridge for you._

The old woman smiled, patting his cheek. _We don’t need a new bridge. This one works just fine._ Lorcan groaned, their conversation prevented from continuing as the rest of his family arrived.

This year it was just the five of them, with Elide gone to visit her parents and his own father’s parents unable to come.

Yulemas dinner went one of two ways: everyone either got along swimmingly or Lorcan’s parents fought. This year, it happened to be the latter. Everything was going well until Nikolai brought up the reelection campaign.

“I was thinking, this time I can campaign with you,” Nikolai said so casually, biting the lamb off his fork and chewing.

Citana set her silverware down. “You can do what?”

“You know.” He shrugged, taking a sip of the red wine in his glass. “Hit the trail, do some speeches.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Lorcan’s father set his silverware down on the covered table with a soft thump that screamed _oh shit_.

Under the table, Vaughan kicked Lorcan. He shook his head, silently telling his cousin to relax the iron grip on his silverware. Loosing a shaky breath, Lorcan resumed eating, albeit slowly.

He was able to tune out most of their argument, at least until the focus came to be him.

“Lorcan’s numbers are high!” Citana shouted. “So are Elide’s and Vaughan’s!”

“They’re not _numbers_!” Nikolai shot back. Under his breath, he muttered, “Two of them aren’t even your children.” Lorcan heard it. He could almost guarantee Vaughan heard it by the way his fork stalled. But Citana didn’t.

“Fuck off, I know that,” she spat. “I never said they were.”

“You think you don’t use them like they are?”

“How _dare_ you, when you don’t seem to have any problem trotting our own son out every time you’re up for reelection!” she said, slicing the air beside her. “It’s a damned good thing he’s just a Salvaterre. Even though you pretend there’s a -Hudson on the end.”

Lorcan’s grandmother pushed back her chair, standing. The room quieted for a second. _If you two are going to continue fighting, I would like to eat in peace. Elsewhere_. Gathering her half-empty plate, silverware, and glass of water, she left.

His father pushed on as soon as the door shut. “I’m trying to help you, Citana!”

Citana threw her napkin at him, shoving her chair back and slamming her hands on the table, sending the dishes rattling. “I didn’t need your help to get here. And I sure as hell don’t need it now. I won the election on _my own_!”

“You need to get serious about what you’re up against! This time, they’re out for blood. You think Erawan and his party are going to play fair this time? They’re angry, Citana. You need to be ready.”

“I will be! You don’t think I have a team on this already? I am the fucking Prime Minister of Terrasen. I don’t need you to come here andーand”

“Mansplain?” Vaughan offered quietly.

“Mansplain!” she shouted, aiming the pointy end of her steak knife at Nikolai. “This race to me!”

Nikolai threw his napkin down. “You’re still so _fucking_ stubborn!”

“Fuck you!”

Lorcan felt like he was twelve again, hiding in his closet as they fought downstairs. But he wasn’t. He was twenty-one years old and he would be damned if he didn’t say anything this time.

“By the fucking gods, are you kidding me?” Lorcan heard himself shout before he even consciously decided to say it. “Can we not be civil for one fucking meal? It’s _Yulemas Eve_ , for fuck’s sake! Aren’t you supposed to be running the country? Get your shit together.”

Shoving his chair back, he stalked out of the dining room and headed for his bedroom, slamming the door. Stripping out of his festive sweater and throwing it at the wall, Lorcan changed into an old hockey tee from high school and a pair of sweatpants. Manon knocked on the door a few minutes later, telling him his grandmother was standing outside.

Waaseyaa Salvaterre sat down beside Lorcan, taking his hand in hers. Lorcan rested his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his childhood: something smoky and tinged with sweetness. She kissed the top of his head, squeezing his hand. They didn’t need to speak, she understood it all.

“Nokoma, was I totally out of line?” he whispered.

“No, Lorcan,” she sighed heavily. “No, you weren’t. I think my Citana needed to hear that.” Growing up, she had always told Lorcan he had the temper of a river. Most days it was calm on the surface, churning underneath. When it stormed, the river was angry, lashing out at anyone alongside its banks. _I love you, Giishkaatig._

No one except his grandmother used his true name. His own mother knew, but she never used it. His father didn’t even know what it was. Elide knew, but only because Lorcan trusted her with his life.

“I love you, too, Nokoma.”

She left as if she were nothing more than a ghost, leaving Lorcan alone in the quiet. He used to hate the quiet, always doing something to keep it from catching up with him. Then during his junior year of high school, he pushed himself too hard and started failing his classes. With his mother in Terrasen’s senate, she couldn’t easily come home and check up on him. Which left his grandmother, who allowed him to burn and rebuild from the ashes, helping him where and when he needed it. He passed that semester, barely.

He needed someone to talk to. But he didn’t want to bother Elide when she was with her parents; she didn’t see them nearly often enough.

So Lorcan called the only person he could think of.

* * *

Rowan yanked his buzzing phone out of Aelin’s greedy little hands, answering before she could. “What could I possibly have done to have brought this upon myself now?” he said.

“Hey, um, sorry. I know it’s late, and it’s Yulemas Eve and everything. You probably have, like, family stuff, I’m just realising. I don’t even know why I didn’t think of it before. Wow, this is why I don’t have friends. I’m a dick. Sorry, man. I’ll, uh, I’ll justー”

“Lorcan, gods,” Rowan interrupted. “It’s fine. It’s half two here, everyone’s gone to bed. Except Aelin. Say hi, A.” Before his distant cousin could say anything, Rowan shot her a look. _Be nice_ , it said.

“Hello, old friend of mine,” Aelin deadpanned, flipping Rowan off. “Ro-ro’s got his pine tree pajamas onー”

Rowan threw a pillow at her, glaring. “That’s quite enough. What’s happening, then?”

“Sorry,” Lorcan blurted out, “I know this is weird, and you’re with Aelin and everything, and, like, gods. I kind of didn’t have anyone else to call who would be awake? Lee’s with her family and I didn’t want to bother her. And I know we’re, uh, not really friends, and we don’t really talk about this stuff, but Ndede came for Yulemas, and he and Mama are like fucking mountain lions fighting over a rabbit when you put them in the same room together for more than an hour, and they got in this huge fight, and it shouldn’t _matter_ , because they’re already divorced and everything, and I don’t know why I lost my shit, but I wish they could give it a rest for _once_ so we could have one single normal holiday, y’know?”

Aelin’s eyes were wide. She didn’t need Rowan’s coaxing, she left on her own, stealing the rest of the Yulemas treats Harriet had baked earlier. Ruffling Rowan’s hair, she flicked his cheek and sauntered out, Fleetfoot forced to make the decision to stay with Rowan or follow Aelin. She chose Rowan.

“All right, I’m listening,” Rowan replied, pulling the thick blanket over his lap.

Lorcan’s exhale sounded shaky, but he began to speak nevertheless. Rowan listened quietly, petting the golden retriever sitting with him. By the time he finished with what happened at dinner, it had been an hour.

All Rowan said was, “It sounds like you did your best.”

No one had ever told him he was _good enough_ growing up. Being Wendlyn’s crown prince hadn’t allowed that. He had to be great, had to be exceptional, the top of his class. 

Sometimes good enough was enough.

He felt like Lorcan needed to hear it.

Before he ever got a response, Rowan heard Lorcan say in a low voice, “Ahーokay, thanks, Ro, I gotta go.”

“Lorcanー” He wasn’t allowed to bare his soul like that and then just end the call. 

“Seriously, um, thank you. Happy Yulemas. G’night.”

The call ended and Rowan dropped his phone onto the blanket, wishing there were some way he could magically travel to Terrasen and give Lorcan Salvaterre a hug. Because if anyone needed one, it was him.

When Lorcan texted him a _Happy Yulemas_ later that day, he pretended like nothing had happened. Rowan went along with it, not wanting to force him to talk about it.

Two days later, an invitation arrived on cream paper with shimmering silver lettering, embossed with forest green and Terrasen’s official seal. Rowan had been invited to the famous New Year’s party that everyone who was anyone wanted to go to. Aelin snatched it, skimming over the words before she grinned wolfishly.

“You’ve got a plus one, and you are bringing me,” she told him matter-of-factly. There was no arguing with her once she made up her mind.

Rowan trailed her back to her bedroom, the invitation held delicately in his hands. “Shouldn’t you get your own? Since you’re a friend of Elide’s?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Aelin turned around, rolling her eyes as she scratched Socks’ chin. “Ro, your boyfriend doesn’t _like_ me. That’s all there is to it.”

“I thought you didn’t like him either.”

“I don’t.” Her smirk terrified Rowan. “But I can’t wait to see his face go red when he sees me arrive.”

* * *

Citana waved a hand, gesturing for Lorcan to spin. “Lor, baby, how attached to that blazer are you?” she asked with a sly smile. Lorcan wrapped his arms around his waist protectively. His mother laughed, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I know you don’t like parties all that much, but I’m so proud of you for choosing to host this fundraiser every year. Don’t drink too much, please.”

From behind, Vaughan said, “We can only hope.” His tone was light, meant to jest because he didn’t drink nearly as much as Elide and Lorcan did.

They met up with Elide in the manor’s ballroom, watching staff finish last minute preparations for the party. The room was bedecked in azure and silver, a whole chocolate fountain with every kind of fruit imaginable waiting to be turned on near one of the balconies. Bundles of fresh-cut pine hung behind the thick curtains, giving the room a comforting wintery smell. The DJ was almost finished setting up, waving to the trio in greeting. Lorcan had met Ren Allsbrook a few times before; he was one of Elide’s friends and was more than happy to play the music for them, free of charge. Although Elide was never happy about that, always having someone stuff a check in the pocket of his jacket right before he left.

“Ha!” Elide cackled, stabbing the sharp point of her acrylic nail into Lorcan’s chest. “I told you that blazer was perfect. Where is my ‘thank you,’ you ungrateful whore?”

He removed her nail from his chest with a wince. “Thank you for forcing me to choose a cognac velvet blazer, Lee. I don’t know what I would ever do without you.”

She harumphed, deeming it acceptable. “You would die without me. Whaddya think, V? Agree or disagree?”

“Agree,” Vaughan said.

Lorcan scoffed, “Betrayal from all sides.”

Elide met his eyes and they hesitated for a second before bursting into laughter. Vaughan muttered something under his breath, padding off to go do gods know what.

The party was in full swing with music pumping and alcohol flowing before Lorcan felt someone watching him. Elide pushed her way through the crowd, hugging Aelin so fiercely she almost knocked them both over. Lorcan met Rowan’s eyes across the sea of partygoers, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Whitethorn!”

“Gods help us all,” Aelin frowned when he was finally in earshot.

Lorcan flashed her a toothy grin that bordered on him baring his teeth. “Looking lovely as always, bitch.”

“Fuck you, Salvaterre.”

“Be nice,” Elide told them both, standing on her toes to pinch Lorcan’s ear before she got Aelin, the latter trying and failing to escape. “It’s a party. No brawling.” Lorcan rubbed his ear after Elide let go, glaring at her. She shot him a look before vanishing onto the dance floor with Aelin and the other partygoers.

“Do you normally brawl at parties?” Rowan asked, brows knitted together.

Lorcan tipped his head back and laughed. “Just the once,” he said, slinging his arm around the prince of Wendlyn’s shoulders and steering him toward the bar. “C’mon, princeling. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

As they strode in sync toward the bar, Lorcan felt their eyes, heard their conversations fall silent as they beheld them: the prince and prime minister’s son. He tried to imagine what they must have looked like. One light, the breeding of an empire generations in the making, the portrait of royal grace; one dark, from a family and place never important enough to make it on the map until they were powerful, rougher around the edges than what was acceptable.

Lorcan found he didn’t quite care what they thought as the silver-haired prince stood at his side.

Hours later, the clock approached midnight. Bodies on the dance floor surrounded Lorcan, and Rowan, who stood awkwardly with the neck of a bottle of champagne in his fist. Elide whooped, backing it up on some mildly-famous female soccer player. Aelin danced with Dorian.

Dance was a generous word for what was happening.

Lorcan tugged the champagne bottle from Rowan’s hand, taking a swig. Then he handed the bottle off to a greedy Aelin, taking Rowan’s hand and pulling him into the throng of people. “Come on, princeling,” Lorcan crooned into Rowan’s ear, the effect nearly ruined by the fact that he had to shout, “dance!” Rowan shook his head. Lorcan cocked his head, frowning. “You don’t dance?” he had to shout.

“Not like this!” Rowan shouted back, shaking his head. His hands twitched, like he’s trying to find something to do without the bottle of champagne. It’s almost endearing.

Wow, Lorcan was drunk.

“It’s all in the hips,” Lorcan smiled, holding up his hands to show the prince he had no ill intent before settling them on Rowan’s waist. “Watch me.” Slowly, he moved his hips side to side, letting the rhythm be his guide. Rowan’s green eyes narrowed, his movements stiff as he tried to follow along with Lorcan. “Get loose,” Lorcan ordered. “Let the music guide you.” Rowan’s movements loosened, just a bit, and became more fluid. “That’s it.”

Ren seamlessly blended an early 2000s hip-hop song into another, the bass thrumming through the crowd. Hands went up and the cheering began.

“Shut _up_!” he shouted, watching the prince’s pine green eyes widen. “Ro, this is my _shit_!” Rowan had the good sense to look alarmed as Elide tumbled into Lorcan, her onyx eyes glittering dangerously as she grinned. Somehow, she ended up with the half-empty bottle of champagne, handing it to Rowan. “Let’s show Prince Rowan here how it’s done, yeah?” Lorcan smirked, offering a hand to Elide. She laughed, shimmying down the length of his body before spinning around to grind on him with wild abandon from behind as Rowan gawked in something like horror. 

Elide danced away with a laugh, finding another partner in an actor from an award-winning show.

Lorcan stretched out his hand, beckoning the prince to join him. Rowan took it gingerly. “Please tell me nobody’s going to do that to me,” he said, clutching the champagne bottle for dear life.

“Not unless you want them to,” Lorcan replied with a wink. Rowan’s cheeks flushed with color. “Now dance!”

“Did that man just say ‘ _I was revibed as soon as this bitch gyrated?_ ’”

“Come _on_ , Whitethorn!”

A few feet away, Dorian was bent over and touching his toes, as instructed. Aelin stole Nesryn away from Sartaq, the two giggling as they grinded on Chaol, one in front and one in back. The poor man looked mortified. Lorcan laughed. It was funーsweat on his brow as Elide cackled and Sartaq tried, and failed, to hide his smile watching Chaol’s torture. Rowan’s face was shocked and confused, and it was hilarious. Lorcan grabbed a shot off a passing tray, throwing it back and licking his lips, barely noticing the way Rowan’s eyes dropped. Or the way the prince swallowed, hard. He did notice the spark in his gut at Rowan watching, thinking nothing of it as he pulled Rowan in front of him, settling his hands on the prince’s waist.

Rowan’s back was flush against Lorcan’s chest, the wintery smell emanating from him like a drug. Lorcan used his hands as a guide on the Prince of Wendlyn’s waist, déjà vu hitting him like a truck. Slowly, the silver-haired prince found his rhythm, after a few very awkward moments. And then Rowan turned, their noses almost brushing as the world faded to a dull roar around them.

In a blink, the dark green in Rowan’s eyes vanished as he took a long drink from the champagne bottle. Then he was smiling, laughing with Aelin as she tried to get him to back it up for her. Lorcan stared, the sweat cold on his body.

“I thought you weren’t going to babysit him all night,” Elide said, sidling up to Lorcan.

Lorcan looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. “And I thought you were too busy for anyone at the moment.” His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk and she whacked his chest. The soccer player tugged Elide back into the crowd and then he was alone again.

Alone, drowning in a sea of people.

And then Rowan was tugging him to where the others formed their own small group in the center of the dancefloor.

And then Rowan was drinking straight from the bottle of champagne, his hand curling around the neck of the bottle and lips wrapped around the tip in a way that made Lorcan forget everything else.

Rowan’s willingness to dance was directly proportionate to his proximity to Lorcan’s hands, and the amount of giddy warmth bubbling under Lorcan’s skin was directly proportionate to the cut of Rowan’s mouth when he watched him dance with Nesryn. It was an equation he was not nearly sober enough to parse.

And then confetti poured from the ceiling as Ren began shouting the countdown into his mic. Lorcan wondered when they ordered confetti cannons. The chant grew to a roar, Lorcan shouting at the top of his lungs, “Three two one!” with Elide’s arm slung around his waist. Then she turned and he leaned down, their kiss sloppy as they broke apart and laughed. By now, it was tradition. They’ve done it every year, both of them perpetually single and affectionately drunk and happy to make everyone else intrigued and jealous.

She tasted horrifying, like peach schnapps. Elide mussed his hair and bit his lip for good measure, flitting off into the crowd as Lorcan opened his eyes.

Rowan stood not far away, his expression unreadable, his body stiff as he met Lorcan’s gaze.

He felt his own grin widen, and Lorcan watched the prince turn, his fist tight around the neck of the bottle. Then Wendlyn’s prince disappeared into the crowd, taking a long, heavy swig and leaving him with Nesryn and Sartaq, who still hadn’t come up for air yet.

Lorcan lost track of things after that because the music was very, very loud and he was very, very drunk.

Stumbling out into the hall, Lorcan wondered where Elide had wandered off to. He vaguely remembered seeing the soccer player still on the dancefloor, so clearly they weren’t together. But the thought slipped his mind, his eyes catching on one silver-haired prince standing outside in the winter night.

He slipped out onto the portico without really thinking about it, and the instant the door closes behind him, the music snuffed out into silence, and it’s just him and Rowan and the garden. He had the hazy tunnel vision of a drunk person when they lock eyes on a goal. He followed it down the stairs and onto the snowy lawn.

Rowan stood quietly, hands in his pockets, contemplating the sky, and he would almost look sober if not for the wobbly lean to the left he’s doing. Stupid Wendlyn dignity, even in the face of champagne. Lorcan wanted to shove his royal face into the rosebush.

Lorcan tripped over a bench, his swearing catching the prince’s attention. When he turned, the moonlight got caught in his hair and his face softened in the half shadows, inviting in a way Lorcan couldn’t quite work out.

“What’re you doing out here?” Lorcan asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

Rowan exhaled, his breath puffing white in the winter air. “Looking for Orion,” he answered.

Lorcan huffed a laugh, tipping his face skyward. Nothing but fat grey winter clouds. Ones that whispered of heavy snow. He could smell it. Or he smelled Rowan. He didn’t know. “You must be really bored of us commoners to come out here in the cold and stare at the clouds.”

“‘m not bored,” Rowan grumbled. “What are you doing out here? Doesn’t Terrasen’s golden boy have some swooning crowds to beguile?”

“Says prince fucking charming,” Lorcan smirked, pulling his hand from his pocket to poke the prince’s shoulder.

Rowan pulled a very unprincely face up at the clouds. “Hardly.”

His knuckles brushed the back of Lorcan’s hand, warmth spreading from point of momentary contact like a spark. Lorcan considered his face in profile, following the smooth line of his nose and the gentle dip at the center of his lower lip, each touched by moonlight. It was freezing and Lorcan was only wearing his velvet blazer, but his chest felt warmed from the inside with liquor and something heady his brain kept stumbling over, trying to name. The garden was quiet except for the blood rushing in his ears.

“You didn’t really answer my question,” Lorcan noted.

Rowan groaned, rubbing a hand across his face. “You can’t ever leave well enough alone, can you?” His head fell back, coming to rest against the tree trunk with a soft thunk. “Sometimes it gets a bit … much.”

Lorcan knew that feeling, far better than he would ever admit to the godsdamned Prince of Wendlyn. Normally, Rowan’s face gave away clues as to what he felt. It offered nothing except a guarded expression now. Leaning back against the tree trunk, he nudged their shoulders together and caught something lighter flicker across Rowan’s face.

A muscle feathered in Rowan’s jaw, and then he spoke, his voice barely above a murmur. Something soft, almost a smile, tugged at his lips. “D’you ever wonder,” he said slowly, “what it’s like to be some anonymous person out there in the world?”

Lorcan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just, you know,” Rowan said. “If your mum weren’t the prime minister and you were just a normal bloke living a normal life, what things might be like? What you’d be doing instead?”

“Ah,” Lorcan said, taking a few moment to consider. “Well, I mean, obviously, I’d be playing professional hockey. I was good enough to be recruited after I finished my senior year, skipping university and heading straight to the rink and big screen. Then she won the election, and here I am, modeling my gorgeous self for stupid magazines and even stupider interviews.” Rowan rolled his eyes; Lorcan nudged his shoulder again playfully. “What about you?”

Rowan shook his head ruefully. “I’d be a writer.”

Lorcan gave a little laugh. He thought he already knew this about Rowan, somehow, but it was still a bit disarming. “Can you do that?”

“Not exactly, seeing as I’m the only full-blooded heir to Wendlyn’s throne,” Rowan said dryly. “Besides, the traditional family career track is the military.”

Rowan bit his lip, waited a beat, then opened his mouth again. “I’d date more, probably, as well.”

Lorcan couldn’t help laughing again. “Right, because it’s so hard to get a date when you’re a prince.”

Rowan’s gaze cut back to Lorcan, green eyes hard with icy chips. “You’d be surprised.”

“How? You’re not exactly lacking for options?”

Rowan kept looking at him, holding his gaze for two seconds too long. “The options I’d like …” he said, dragging the words out. “They don’t quite seem to be _options_ at all.”

Lorcan blinked. “What?”

“I’m saying that I have … people … who interest me,” Rowan said, turning his body toward Lorcan, speaking with a fumbling pointedness, as if it meant something. “But I shouldn’t pursue them. At least not in my position.”

Were they too drunk to communicate in English?

“I don’t know that the hell you’re talking about,” Lorcan snapped.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really, really don’t.”

Rowan’s whole face grimaced in frustration, his eyes casting skyward like they’re searching for help from a silent god. “Gods, you’re as thick as it gets,” he said, and he grabbed Lorcan’s face in both hands and kissed him.

Lorcan froze, registering the press of Rowan’s lips and the wool cuffs of his coat grazing his jaw. The world fuzzed out into static, and his brain swam hard to keep up, adding up the equation of teenage grudges and wedding cakes and late night texts and not understanding the variable that got him here, except it’s … well, surprisingly, he doesn’t really mind. Like, at all.

In his head, he tried to cobble together a list in a panic, got as far as, _One, Rowan’s lips are soft_ , and short-circuited.

He tested leaning into the kiss and was rewarded by the prince’s mouth sliding and opening against his, Rowan’s tongue brushing against his, which was, _wow_. It was nothing like kissing Elide earlierーnothing like kissing anyone he’s ever kissed in his life. It felt as steady and huge as the ground under their feet, as encompassing of every part of him, as likely to knock the wind out of his lungs. One of Rowan’s hands slid into his hair and he tangled his fingers in the long strands at the roots at the back of his head, and he heard himself make a sound that broke the breathless silence, andー

Just as suddenly, Rowan released him roughly enough that he staggered backward, and the prince mumbled a curse and an apology, green eyes wide, and he spun on his heel, crunching off through the snow at double time. Before Lorcan could say or do anything, the Prince of Wendlyn had disappeared.

“Oh,” Lorcan breathed, finally, faintly, touching one hand to his lips. Then: “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is, uh, very long. but it’s fine, bc it covers three major events. poor chaol lol
> 
> they finally kiss !! yay ! :)
> 
> notes:
> 
> Giishkaatig means cedar in Ojibwe
> 
> Waaseyaa means first light from the rising sun
> 
> nokoma means grandmother
> 
> the song played during the party is Shake That - Eminem
> 
> i know i keep talking about this, but lorcan’s cognac velvet blazer is 1000/10 just click on the link (https://bonobos.com/products/jetsetter-stretch-velvet-blazer?color=cognac)


End file.
